


Songs For No One

by lilbluednacer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Banter, Canon Typical Violence, F/M, Food Issues, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Nightmares, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Prescription Drug Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester, Road Trips, Scars, Self-Destructive Behavior, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Survivor’s Guilt, Witches, dealing with the death of a parent, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2020-03-08 04:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18887218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: Dean is no stranger to saving damsels in distress but when he and Sam get stuck protecting a young woman being hunted by a demon he learns that stitching someone's skin back together is a lot easier than fixing a broken heart.





	1. fire

**Author's Note:**

> We’re going deep into the angst with this one so I highly recommend taking a second to check out all the tags before reading. This generally follows canon but takes place outside of a specific season. Hope you enjoy!

You wake up on fire.

You try to scream but nothing comes out, like a nightmare, and you realize what you're feeling is pain, licking all the way down your side.

You let out an panicked airless sob and dig your fingers into a - table? 

"Shit, she's waking up!" It's a guy's voice, he sounds frantic.

"Thanks Captain Obvious, I can see that," a second voice growls.

Hospital, you're in a hospital. Okay, that makes sense, you're hurt and now you're in a hospital.

Except it's too quiet, you don't hear any machines beeping or other people talking and there aren't sheets under you, just wood and what feels like the edge of a towel. Then rough fingers are at your mouth, pushing your lips apart.

"Open up,” the disembodied voice, the second one again, orders.

You manage to comply and feel a pill get placed on your tongue. Someone's hand slips under your neck to prop your head up and you swallow automatically when water gets tipped into your mouth.

"Good girl," the voice praises you.

"What'd you give her?" The first guy again.

"Holy water and a Vicodin."

"Jesus, Dean.”

“What?”

“She’s pretty small.” He sound concerned. “Did you check the dosage?"

"Course I did, it'll help knock her out, that’s the freaking point Sam. You want her to wake up in the middle of this?"

Did he say holy water?

You breathe shallowly. Holy water is used to test against possessions -

Possessions mean demons -

Suddenly your mind gets hurled backwards. You're in your car and it's a perfect cloudless spring day and you're going to pick up your mom -

Your mom -

Your whole body seizes up, the memory of your mother's screams echoing in your head -

"Dean, I think she's going into shock!"

"Shit, no, no, come on..." 

An arm comes down on your chest, holding you still -

Your mom, oh god, your mom, screaming for you -

"...come on, open your eyes. Come on, dammit, look at me!"

To your shock your eyelids flutter open and you find yourself caught in green eyes, the edges of a man's face blurring in your peripheral vision.

"Hey there." His voice is low and tender. "What's your name, darlin'?"

You lick your dry lips; your mouth tastes like smoke. "Cay - Caylee," you wheeze. 

"Hi Caylee." His voice is very calm considering you're pretty sure you're on the edge of death right now. "I'm Dean and that's my brother, Sam. I need you to listen to me, you're hurt and we're gonna patch you up but you gotta hold still, okay?"

"Hurts," you grit out, feeling tears leak out of the corners of your eyes.

"I know it does, you got cut up pretty good." Warm fingers brush across your forehead. "You'll feel better soon, I promise. Just relax. You're gonna be okay."

But your mom won't be.

There's a new pressure at your side and you start to cry in earnest. Nothing can be worse than this, you think, all alone, without your mom, in pain and terrified. You hope you'll just black out, you feel like you're going to die -

"Hey, hey, no one's dying tonight." A washcloth runs over your face, wiping away your tears. "Just breathe."

All you can manage are little shallow gasps as your side throbs in agony. So this is how you die. Alone, with strangers, on a fucking table.

You play back the phone call in your head, the way your mom asked you to pick her up at the space the coven was renting, not the house, which was unusual. You should have known, why didn't you know -

A wave of unexpected warmth suddenly rolls through you and you sigh in surprise, your eyes drifting shut.

"There you go," Dean says, low and calm, steady. "Just go with it."

Your body starts to relax, the pain still there but a little bit removed, enough to be able to breathe though the sensation that you're being stabbed. And then even that fades and it's just warmth and gentle hands cupping the sides of your head. If this is dying maybe death isn't so bad.

"Thank you," you slur, floating on a warm wave of relief.

One of them, maybe Dean, you aren't sure, chuckles, like you're being funny. "Well that did the trick."

Your mother's face appears in your mind. Those soft blue eyes, light brown hair, like a perfect aged up version of you. _Oh Mommy_ , you think. _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, forgive me Mommy, Mommy_ -

"Shh." Thumbs sooth across your temples. “Don’t talk.”

You quiet and fall asleep to Dean crooning the lyrics to Hotel California into your ear.

*

You wake up with a start, your hands flying to the right side of your body, gasping at the brutal ache in your side. You're on a bed, in what looks like a motel room, and there's a very tall guy sitting in a chair next to the edge of the bed, staring at you with liquid hazel eyes.

"Hey," he says, giving you a careful smile. "I'm Sam. How are you feeling?"

You try to sit up and curl over like you've been punched, hands pressed against your side. Someone changed you while you were sleeping, you're wearing an unfamiliar plaid flannel shirt that falls to your thighs, your bra is gone, and your hair has fallen out of its perfectly curled ponytail. You press your face into the bedspread and choke back a shocked gasp, your head spinning with pain and confusion.

"Oh god, careful." Sam reaches over to help you sit up slowly. "Are you in pain?"

You nod breathlessly and accept the pill that he shakes out of a bottle and passes to you along with a glass of water to swallow it down.

"Thank you," you whisper.

He nods and leans forward, resting his hands on his thighs. "Look - Caylee, right?"

You nod back, lightheaded. What are you doing here, in a strange place with a strange man? Your mind starts running into overdrive, trying to come up with some explanation for what's happening. Maybe you're dreaming, maybe all of this is just some fucked up dream. Maybe you're hungover and hallucinating, maybe you partied so hard last night that you don't remember what happened. 

Maybe it's like that time you went clubbing with Natalie over spring break in Vegas and shared a tab of molly in the bathroom of Surrender. You both woke up in the morning naked in bed with a gorgeous foreign exchange student from Spain lying under the luxury Egyptian cotton hotel sheets between the two of you.

But the pit in your stomach and the burn in your side tells you that it's not.

"Do you remember what happened?" he asks.

You blink at him, trying to think. You feel sick to your stomach, you want to call your mom, you just need your mom -

Your mom -

"Oh," you breathe out, and curl your arms around yourself, like that can protect you from the pain as your memory comes back with a force that reverberates through you like you've been slapped. You think about the last time you saw her, in that dark basement, screaming for you until she couldn’t anymore, trapped along with everyone else in the coven. 

You grip the edge of the bedspread, everything coming back in a rush - the fire, the knife, the hand on your neck holding you down. “I… how did I get here?”

“My brother and I found you, we brought you here. I stitched you up last night," he informs you. "You got lucky, you lost a lot of blood."

You run your hand down the little buttons of the shirt you're wearing. It must be his or - wait, there are two of them. The eyes you remember were pure green anyway, and the voice was rougher.

"What happened to my clothes?" It's not the question you mean to ask, it just slips out.

He flushes a little and clears his throat. "Dean trashed your dress. He had to cut it off, when” - he gestures loosely at you. "I'm sorry we couldn't save it. You were more important."

It's so stupid but that's the thing that makes you cry, your pretty silk lilac dress that you bought for three hundred dollars at your favorite boutique. It was a splurge but it was for a special occasion; it was supposed to be worth it. 

He passes you a tissue. "It was a nice dress," he says kindly. "Where were you going before..."

Before your mother called you to the coven, before you walked right into their trap. Before you watched almost everyone you know, everyone you grew up with, burn while you sat tied to a chair.

And then you choke out a bitter chuckle, this horrible grating sound. "It was my college graduation," you explain. 

"Oh." His eyes go wide. "Congratulations. College. That's - that's great."

"Yeah," you say weakly.

"It still counts," he says softly. "Even if you missed the ceremony."

"Thanks." You wipe the back of your nose, waiting anxiously for the pill to kick in. "Um… do you know… did anybody...?"

His face falls and he scoots his chair a little closer to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry. You were the only survivor."

The room spins at the confirmation of what you already knew deep down but hearing someone say it out loud is different, you pitch forward and he catches you, his big hands cupping your shoulders. You suck in a breath, afraid you're about to scream -

The door bangs open and Dean walks in, his hands full of coffee cups and a paper bag of something. "So Cas is MIA, shocker, but she's definitely the right girl, cus I swung by her house and it's trashed, and oh man Sammy, the donuts at that cafe place are freaking incredible..."

He trails off when he sees you and suddenly his whole face changes, a mask of faux cheer sliding over it. "Hey, the patient's awake!" 

"I have to go to the bathroom," you mumble. 

You stand, forgetting about your injury, and topple right into Sam, who slings an arm around you and walks you across the motel room while Dean watches you with narrowed eyes.

You shut the bathroom door, turning to the sink and the mirror. You gasp involuntarily at your reflection, you're very pale under your tan and your long hair is a mess. You try to run your fingers through it and realize you can't even lift your right arm above your shoulder before pain sears all the way down to your hip.

You give up on your hair and unbutton the shirt, crying out in surprise. There's a bandage taped from the middle of your ribs all the way down to the curve of your hip bone. You walk your fingers down the medical tape, wondering how many stitches there are.

Tears spill over, you button the shirt back up with shaking fingers so you don't have to look at it, what happened to your body. You hunch over the sink and cry into your fist, fighting the panic, the realization that your life as you know it burned up in that basement along with everyone you grew up with.

They're dead. Your entire family, gone.

"Hey!" There's a sharp knock on the bathroom door. "Everything alright in there?"

You inhale hard, splash some cold water on your face. Now you look worse, your skin's all blotchy. You sigh in resignation and when you open the door Dean’s right there, pushing a cardboard cup of coffee into your hands.

"Thought you could use this," he explains.

"Oh," you say, embarrassed, staring down at your bare feet. "Thank you."

His hand is warm on your shoulder. "Come sit down. We have some things to talk about."

You let him lead you to the table in the little kitchenette, guided by the gentle push of his hand. You can barely walk, you have to lean all your weight into him, gritting your teeth against the pain. There's a box of donuts on the table along with bagels and cream cheese. You sink into an empty chair, your suppressed grief fading into numbness, or maybe it's the drugs, the mystery pill that Sam gave you, the pill you swallowed without question like a moron because you were so dazed by the pain you couldn't think straight.

"Hope you're not one of those girls who doesn't eat carbs," Dean jokes, pushing a bagel at you. 

There's something about his manner that sets you on edge. It’s too casual, like you're stupid and he's taking pity on you, like he thinks you couldn't possibly understand the magnitude of the shit you're in.

You swallow back a wave of nausea. "I'm not hungry."

“You should really eat something,” Sam argues gently.

Just the idea of it makes bile rise up your throat. “I can’t.”

The guys exchange a look. Dean leans back in his chair, a chocolate frosted donut pinched between his fingers. "So we have a few questions for you, is that okay?"

You manage to raise an eyebrow at him. "Aren't you going to give me the whole speech first?"

He looks confused but you can tell even that is contrived, he's just playing dumb, trying to catch you off guard. "Huh?"

You shrug, staring down at your cup cradled in your hands, idly taking note of your fingernails, painted a shiny pale pink two days before, the polish somehow still gleaming and unchipped. You have no idea what they could possibly want to ask you but you guess you're not surprised. You've put it together, the way they talk, the fact that you're not in a hospital, the holy water.

They're hunters.

They have to be. You've heard their names before, whispered behind closed doors. It has to be them, they're kind of notorious in certain circles. Hunters notoriously despise witches too but they saved you, so maybe they're different.

Not that it matters. Your life is basically over, anyway.

"I know who you are," you inform him quietly. 

He cocks his head to the side. "Oh really?"

"Dean and Sam? You're the Winchester brothers. Everyone talks about you."

For some weird reason he grins. "Yeah?"

"I didn't say they said anything good."

Sam clears his throat and leans over the table towards you. "So I was wondering if you could tell us about the spell."

You do what you were taught to do in a situation like this, which is to tilt your head innocently and give them both a blank stare, playing dumb right back. “What spell?”

“Oh c’mon,” Dean scoffs. “How stupid do you think we are?”

You shrug and lean back in your chair slowly so you don't pull at your side, and keep your mouth shut.

“Look.” Sam leans across the table, his hands pressed together imploringly. “We’re on your side here, okay? The more you can tell us, the more you can help us help you.”

“Help me,” you repeat through numb lips. “How could you possibly help me?”

Dean fixes his eyes on you. “In case you're unclear about the details of how you got here, we're the only reason you're breathing right now.”

“Dean.” Sam says his name sharply, like a warning.

“I didn't ask you to save me,” you grit out.

“Look, we saw what happened in that room, you know as well as I do that the coven was working some major majo.” Sam's voice is soft and low, pleading. “We just want to know about the spell, okay?”

You sigh, already exhausted. You aren't supposed to talk about this, you never talk about magic with outsiders, the number one rule of the coven might as well have been _keep your fucking mouth shut_ , but they're all dead and you're not, you're the only one left, what does it matter anymore? It's strange though, why a hunter would be interested in magic. "Why do you want to know about it?"

"I'm curious as to why you'd let your coven" -

"It's not my coven," you interrupt hotly.

Sam looks confused. "I don't understand."

"My - my mother..." The words comes out ragged. "She… was a witch. It was her coven. I wasn't involved.”

Dean frowns. "Wait - you're not a witch?"

You shake your head. "I never joined the coven."

"Why not?"

"You ever hear about the Catholic Church scandal?"

Sam shoots his brother a worried look. "Yeah, of course."

"Covens aren't that different. People at the top have all the power. Power corrupts. Mom didn't want me involved."

Dean runs a hand over his face. "But you can do magic, right?"

You shake your head. "No. I never learned."

Sam looks surprised. "Didn't your mom teach you?"

"No."

Dean looks disbelieving. "But you could probably do it right? I mean, if you wanted to?"

You shrink back in your chair. "That wouldn't be a good idea."

"Why not?"

You think of the things that happened when you were small, the things you did before you understood what it meant, when magic was just that - magical. Something to be inspired by and respected, full of wonder. "It just wouldn't."

"So, the spell?" Sam prompts.

You nod, rubbing your wrists where the rope cut into your skin. "It was a sacrifice. Of, um, purity."

Dean slams one hand down on the table. "I knew it!" he exclaims. "Freaking virgins. You know, you good girls manage to cause a whole lot of trouble for us."

You stare blankly at him. In different circumstances you'd be laughing but you can't feel anything right now. "I'm not a virgin."

Dean coughs and spits out a bite of his donut into a napkin. "But - but you said it was a purity spell. Purity equals virgins, boom, virgin sacrifice. See it all the time."

“Dude, I’m telling you. Definitely not a virgin. Like, not even close, okay?”

To your annoyance he gives you a smirk as he holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, you’re a sexually liberated woman, I get it.”

Sam rolls his eyes at his brother. “That doesn’t explain the spell though.”

You take a sip of your coffee, stalling. It's got too much sugar in it but it makes you feel a little more awake, a little more human. You can almost pretend that this is just another morning, meeting over coffee and donuts with your study group, except you'd never meet somewhere as sad as a crappy cheap motel room and you've never seen guys on campus who look like this, so aggressively handsome it makes you self conscious. You like to think that you're pretty on a good day but right now you feel raw and ugly, tears sitting in the back of your throat, your side throbbing in pain.

“Caylee?” Sam prompts gently.

You grab a napkin and carefully run the edge of it under your eyes. "You're wrong. About purity automatically meaning virgins. That's the problem with hunters, you take everything literally. There's more than one kind of purity."

Sam’s face lights up in understanding. "Magical purity?"

You nod. "My mom is" - shit - "was very powerful. That can be passed down. I guess they - they thought I had a lot of potential. Even though I've never actually practiced magic - I come from it. It's inside me even if I choose not to use it. I was the best candidate."

Sam is actually taking notes in a little leather journal. "So - purity in this case being magically pure” -

"Yeah” - 

"The amount of power being stored in your body could be huge, then, if you've never used it."

“I've… done things,” you say carefully. “Little things. But I've never cast a spell so technically, yeah. I don't know, magic is strange, I don't make the rules, you know? I guess it's just, if I did cast a spell - which I wouldn't, I don't even know how, but because I'm like, a magical legacy or whatever my magic would be a lot stronger than your run of the mill witch.”

“So you're a bomb.” Dean gives you a suspicious look.

You manage a wry smile, the idea that he could be afraid of you is laughable. "That's the rumor."

Sam is nodding furiously. "So what went wrong?"

"Excuse me?"

Dean’s now frowning. “When we got there everyone..." He clears his throat. "Well the whole fucking place was on fire. Lot of bodies. Sure seemed like something went wrong."

You're so grateful Sam gave you that pill, because instead of screaming you feel strangely, blessedly calm. "The intention of the spell was to summon a demon and give them my body - that’s the sacrifice, they needed someone with magical potential who’d never cast a spell before - to possess so they could use my power. Possible power. Whatever."

Dean squints. “Couldn’t they have just summoned it? I mean, why’d they have to sacrifice you?”

“It makes the magic stronger,” you explain, feeling the painful thud of your heart as yesterday floods back to you. “The more fear that’s generated, the more innocent blood spilled - dark magic thrives on that stuff. It makes it more powerful.”

Dean shoots Sam a look you can't interpret. "A demon with a witch's power?"

"Not just any witch," you say softly. "Mom was - well, a prodigy, really. Just brilliant. So was my grandmother. They say it's hereditary."

Sam looks horrified. “Why would they do that though?”

You shiver. “Power. Le - the leader of the coven made some kind of deal with the demon. She offered me. To it. In exchange for more magical power I think. I don’t know, it’s not like she was clear on the details.”

Dean gives you an incredulous look. “And you were just going to let them do that to you?”

“Of course not,” you snap back. “I didn't…” your throat closes up and you have to swallow hard so you don't burst into tears. “I didn't know they were going to do it.”

He looks unconvinced. “Then why were you there?”

You pick at the lid of your coffee cup. “I wasn't supposed to be. The spell didn't work, anyway. The - the summoning part did, but uh… obviously I wasn’t sacrificed like I was supposed to.”

"Why not?"

You gather your hair in your hand and bend your head over so they can see the tattoo on the back of your neck. "I got it when I was sixteen."

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. "Sixteen?"

"Mom wanted to be prepared, just in case, she’d um... heard some rumors that Leader was doing dark magic but she never had any proof. Turns out she was right, obviously. They'd been planning this for - well, years, apparently. It’s a complicated ritual, they needed certain astrological events to all be exactly right or some shit, you know, planets being in the right house and facing direct, the global energy pattern, solar flares, that kind of thing."

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, looking a little bewildered, like he has no idea what you’re talking about. "So what happened when the demon couldn't get in your body?"

You grip your cup. "He took the leader of the coven instead. He was - angry." You shut your eyes, the memory coming back to you. The knife in Leader's hand, the candles tipping over. The screams.

"Yeah, look, about that," Dean says. "He's still out there somewhere, and he's probably looking for you."

You fold your arms on the table and rest your cheek on them. "I guess that makes sense."

"Do you have anywhere else you can go? Any family?"

For one second you think of calling Natalie and then you shut that idea down, hard. You shake your head, missing your friend - your one real friend outside of the coven, your only friend in the entire world who’s still _alive_ , probably driving to LA for her internship right now. Natalie doesn’t know about you, who you came from, she thinks you’re relatively normal if a bit of a hippy. She said it was cute, called you a new age spirit junkie. She can’t ever know about this, you can’t allow anyone else to get hurt because of you.

You’ve already gotten enough people killed.

“Caylee.” Sam’s voice is very soft. “Are you okay?”

You rub your eyes with the heel of your hand. “Sorry, what was the question?”

“Do you have any other family?”

"Not really. I have an aunt out in California but I haven't seen her since I was like, five. Everyone I really know… like anyone who actually knew about me and mom, what she could do… they were all..."

"What about your dad?”

You visibly flinch. "He's not in the picture."

"I'm sorry," Sam apologizes, looking shame-faced.

"It's fine," you whisper. "I have some money. I can figure something out."

"Or you could come with us," Dean says.

You lift your head in surprise. "What?"

"We have a place. It's totally protected. You can stay there until we kill the demon."

You gape at him. "But - why?"

He gives you a smooth smile. "Don't worry about it. We can help, so let us."

You look between the two of them. The pill is thrumming in your blood and screams are echoing in your brain. You can't think straight. There's something going on here, something you aren't getting.

"Caylee?" Dean prompts.

"Do I even have a choice?"

He gives you a conspiratorial smile. "It's easier if you pretend you do." 

Sam gets up. "I'll start loading up the car."

You pull yourself to your feet, looking around for your shoes. Your face falls when you spot them. You were going to your college graduation ceremony; you were wearing five inch cork wedges.

"Oh no," Dean says. "No way."

"I can do it," you say weakly. You take two steps before you start to fall, black spots exploding in front of your face, and catch yourself on the back of a chair before you can pass out.

"Look sweetheart, your pride isn't worth this." One arm loops under your knees and then he's picking you up bridal style, like you weigh nothing.

You give up and wrap your left arm around his neck. You're dizzy with grief and pain and Dean smells like leather and chocolate frosting from the donut. You press your forehead into the hollow of his throat and close your eyes.

You fall back asleep before he even gets you outside.


	2. fever

You wake up in the backseat of a car.

Every muscle in your body hurts and your neck is twisted at a weird angle. It takes a few seconds for everything to come back and then you have to press your hands over your mouth, your eyes squeezing shut as you swallow down a harsh sob. You breathe through your nose for a minute before you blink your eyes open. You stare up at the ceiling of the car, idly realizing that it isn't moving and the music is off, you must be parked somewhere.

You rub your eyes and lift your head a little; you're splayed out on your back, your shoes on the floor of the car, your little black bag under your feet. You sigh in relief that somehow the guys remembered it; at least now you've got your wallet. You figure if you're running for your life being flush with cash is probably going to be helpful.

And then your stomach drops because you realize it's the only thing you have now. You've lost your mother, your entire family, the people you grew up with, your _life_ ; all you have left is your bag and your credit cards and your phone. It makes you dizzy to think about; you close your eyes and push your fingertips against your eyelids, watching light scatter against darkness. 

"Hey," Sam says from the passenger seat. “You up?”

You smack your lips together a few times, your mouth is dry and tastes bitter. “Yeah.”

“How're you feeling?" His voice is soft, empathetic, it makes you want to crawl into the front seat and climb into his lap.

You sit up a little and try to stretch without pulling at your stitches. "Where are we?"

 

“Newark.”

You blink at him. “We’re in New Jersey?”

"Yeah. Dean’s just inside getting some food and then we’ll get back on the road."

"Oh." You slowly pull yourself up all the way and lean forward. "Hey, can I have another one of those, um, pills you gave me before?"

He frowns. "Those are pretty strong, are you sure?"

"Please?" 

He sighs and digs through a backpack, finally pulls out a bottle of pills and hands them back to you. "No more than four in twenty-four hours, okay?"

"Okay." You examine the bottle. There's no prescription printed on it, just the brand name of a drug you’ve never heard of. It must be a sample. "How'd you get this?"

He snorts. "Dean had a, ah, friend once who was a pharm rep."

"Convenient."

"Very."

You dry swallow one and put the bottle in your purse.

"Just give them back when you’re feeling better?" he asks. “They’re kind of for emergencies only.”

"Sure, okay. Thank you."

He catches your eyes in the rearview mirror. "You're welcome."

The driver's side door opens and Dean slides into the car. "Here.” He hands Sam a packaged salad. "Dressing on the side, freak," but he says it with affection. 

He twists around and hands you a bottle of water and something wrapped in foil. "I don't know what you like but the chicken sandwich seemed safe, so..." He shrugs, looking a little helpless.

"Thanks," you murmur, and sit with the sandwich in your lap.

He gives you an annoyed glance. "You waiting for an invitation or something?"

You sigh, uncomfortable with his scrutiny, and open up the foil. A soft bun, wilted piece of lettuce and wet slice of tomato. Chicken that to you smells like burning flesh and you gag, last night coming back to you in technicolor.

Dean’s somehow already wolfed down a burger. He wipes his hands with a paper napkin before starting the engine and puts the car in drive, music pounding from the speakers. You wrap the sandwich back up and slide it surreptitiously into your bag.

You drift in and out of sleep for the rest of the day. You realize you don't know where it is they're taking you and you can't summon the energy to care right now, the pill you took hours ago has blunted the edge of your grief and fear, the only thing that’s making this entire situation feel tolerable right now. You carefully open the pill bottle inside your purse and take another one, let it pull you under into a half sleep that feels like slowly slipping into warm water.

Hours and hours later Dean and Sam get an argument over whether to get a motel room for the night, Dean against, Sam successfully for. When he parks the car Dean comes around to your side and opens the door for you, holding out his arms.

"I can walk," you mutter groggily, barely conscious, but you allow him to help you out of the car before pulling away, standing barefoot against the car.

"You're not wearing shoes," he grumbles. "If you get tetanus don't come crying to me."

“I can do it,” you insist, and tip over sideways, your bare feet scraping against the blacktop as the night sky spins above you.

Dean catches you with a grunt and drags you upright. “Alright, that's enough of that.”

You walk across the parking lot with Dean’s arm tight around your shoulders and your arms looped around his waist as you follow Sam inside the motel, acutely aware of the weight of Dean's arm the whole way in. You glance around the lobby as Dean half-drags you to the front desk, according to the framed prints on the wall you’re in Pittsburgh. Sam asks the clerk behind the desk for one room with two beds, pays using a credit card. You step up to the counter when he's done but Dean pulls you away by the elbow.

"You're staying with us," he informs you.

"It's okay, I can pay for my own room. I have money."

He shakes his head. "It's not that. I can't protect you if you're in a different room."

You sigh. "So what, you're my bodyguard now?"

"There's a demon out there who thinks you betrayed him," he says in a low voice. "Sure sounds like you could use a bodyguard to me."

The room is at the end of the building by the parking lot. You follow the guys inside, trailing one hand along the wall when Dean lets you go. There's an easy rhythm to the way they unpack, like they've done this a million times. 

You watch, feeling dizzy and kind of sick. You can't find a way to fit into this picture, can't get it to make sense. Your whole life it's been you and your mom, and then occasionally, when you started college and got braver, you and Natalie. Sure, you’ve hooked up with a decent amount of guys in the past few years, you’ve even had the occasional crazy night that starts with a party and ends in a drug fueled hazy sexual escapade, things you always recounted to Natalie over brunch the next day but you don’t do stuff like this, you've never even had a real boyfriend, let alone slept in a skanky motel room with not one but two guys you barely know.

You’ve never been in a situation where you were so aware of how unsafe and vulnerable you are, alone with two strangers halfway across the country from where your mother burned, just like the good old days when psycho puritanical men burned witches in droves because they were terrified of women having abilities like that, terrified of the magic and mystery that threatened their ideas about god and power and the greatness of men.

These strangers aren’t just any men either, these are hunters, and not only hunters but Winchesters, living legends in some circles you don’t like to frequent. You always tried for normal, when you could anyway, but it’s not like you could ever pretend with them, they must have grown up the same way you did - the rules, the secrets, the fear of exposure, your old childhood nightmare of coming home from school to social workers sitting on your doorstep because some nosy neighbor thought your mother was a devil worshipper.

And now the nightmare is real. Your mother is gone, and you’re alone with strangers.

You watch Dean pull off his plaid button down, revealing a tight black crew neck. "Pick a bed," he tells you, throwing a duffle bag in a corner.

You blink, confused. "Where are you going to sleep?"

He shrugs. "Me and Sam will flip for the floor."

You bite your lip, feeling guilty and intrusive. Why are they even helping you? It's not their fault a demon wants to kill you. They’re hunters, they kill the bad things, they don’t take care about sad little witch orphans.

You jump when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Dean's standing next to you, giving you a smile that looks a little insincere, like he’s faking it for your benefit, but it’s comforting nonetheless.

"Hey," he says softly. "It's not a big deal. Don't worry about it."

You pick the bed furthest from the door and curl up in the middle of it. Sam and Dean play Rock Paper Scissors for the other bed and Dean loses spectacularly. Sam shakes his head at him like he's disappointed and orders a large pizza while Dean snatches a pillow and sets up on the floor, glaring at his brother.

The tv gets turned on and you lean back against the headboard, feeling self conscious and exhausted. How did you get here, with two guys you don't even know?

Two guys that saved you from a demon, who've seen you half naked and sewn your flesh back together, taken care of you without asking for so much as a thank you.

They saved you.

At some point before the pizza arrives you fall asleep and when you wake up it's the middle of the night and you feel terrible. It's like your skin is too tight, you're hot and sticky and your stitches are throbbing. 

You feel nauseous. All you want is your mom, and she's dead.

It's too much; you turn your head into the pillow and cry, your hands pressed against your bandage. You want to take another pill but you feel too weak to move so you just lay there curled up in the fetal position, weeping.

"Hey." The mattress dips and Dean climbs onto the bed. "What's going on?"

You feel weak and exposed, and awful. You cover your face with your hands, wishing you could disappear.

"Aw hell," he mutters. He leans over you and places a hand on your back and then it moves to your chest, your forehead. "Oh shit, you're really warm."

"I think I'm sick," you whimper, and let out a pathetic sob.

Sam must get up because you can hear the sound of covers getting flipped back. "Dean? What's going on?" 

Dean slides his hand under your shirt, presses against your stitches and you gasp, your legs twisting in the sheets. "Sam, get the med bag,” he orders.

"What's wrong?"

"She’s burning up."

"Do we have any of that amoxicillin left?"

"We better," Dean growls.

There's the sound of Sam getting out of bed and then a light flips on. You shut your eyes tight, weeping into your hands.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Dean gets an arm under you and pulls you to him. "You're gonna be fine, your stitches are probably infected, it happens. That knife was dipped in all kinds of shit."

You moan, remembering the look on Leader's face when she (no, he, it was a demon, not her) plunged the knife between your ribs.

Dean's arm tightens around you. "Sam?" 

"I found it." You hear the shake of pills and then Dean's making you sit up. You choke back the antibiotics with the water Sam holds out for you and collapse back against Dean, sobbing weakly.

"Hey, hey, c’mon, you're alright." He lays down and eases you back with him so your head is resting on his chest, his arm around your shoulders. He's shirtless and warm, the whole thing feels way too intimate for a guy you've only known for twenty-four hours.

"I'm sorry," you choke out, your hands clenched into fists.

“It's okay, Sam, can you get the” -

“Yeah, yeah.” The light goes back off and you can hear Sam shuffle back to the other bed. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean's arm tightens around you. “Caylee?”

You're crying too hard to talk but you nod because you don't have a choice, everyone you ever loved is dead or gone and your body is broken and this room, this man holding you, is all you have now.

Dean sighs. "Try not to move too much, you’ll pull your stitches.”

“Okay,” you sob. You just want your mom. She promised, she promised she wouldn't let something like this happen and now you're here, crying in a stranger's arms.

"Alright sweetheart, come on, you're okay." He rocks you a little bit, one hand rubbing circles between your shoulder blades. "Go back to sleep, okay? You'll feel better in the morning."

You sniff, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "Why are you doing this?" you whisper.

"Doing what?"

"Taking care of me."

Dean brushes your hair away from your face where it's sticking to your tear streaked cheeks. "Don't worry about it, okay?"

You get the sense that he's not telling you the whole truth about it but his hand is gentle on your skin and he's warm, solid muscle under you. And without him you'd be dead.

So you nod and close your eyes, tears spilling down the sides of your face, and try to focus on the hand he’s currently trailing up and down your arm. At least you have this, someone touching you with gentle hands and a low voice that calls you nice things, things no guy has ever called you, words that make you feel like you matter. You think this must be what it feels like to have a boyfriend, someone who holds you when you’re hurting and tells you pretty nonsense because they love you and want to protect you.

"It's okay," he says, voice low and gravely. "You're okay."

He's lying, it's not okay, nothing about this is okay, but you're tired and you hurt everywhere and he feels safe, and strong, so you let yourself relax into him, let him soothe you back to sleep.

*

You wake up and everything hurts: you’re too hot and too cold at the same time, the entire right side of your torso burns, and your mouth is dry. Cool fingers skitter across your forehead and you push into the touch, fleetingly thinking that you must be at home, your mother healing you with love and magic, but when you crack your eyes open you're staring into hazel eyes and you flinch, the past thirty-six hours hitting you so fast it makes you breathless.

“Hey,” Sam says quietly. “How're you feeling?”

You lick your lips, wincing at the sour taste in your mouth, and will yourself not to cry. “Like shit.”

He makes a sympathetic noise and slides his hand under the back of your head to prop it up. “You need to take another antibiotic.” 

You open your mouth obediently, too tired to take the pill from him so he carefully places it on your outstretched tongue and holds a glass of water to your lips so you can swallow it. He lets you go and you flop your head back down onto the pillow, watching him through slitted eyes as he moves around the room, packing up a duffle bag, surreptitiously slipping a gun into the waistband of his jeans, like you don't know who he is, like you haven't been warned about hunters your entire childhood.

Your mother used to call them barbarians.

Dean comes through the door silhouetted by early morning sunshine, three cups of coffee clutched in his hands and a paper pastry bag held between his teeth. Sam rolls his eyes and snatches the bag out of his mouth for him, roots around and digs out a muffin and relieves Dean of one of the coffee cups.

“How is she?” Dean says it like you aren't even here, leaning against the wall and taking a sip of his coffee.

Sam looks back at you and lifts a hesitant shoulder. “Think her fever went down a little, that's a good sign.”

Dean ambles over towards the bed, squinting at you. “You want coffee?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you croak, because college has made you completely dependent on caffeine and the last thing you need right now on top of everything else is a withdrawal migraine.

You manage to push yourself up on your elbows before the walls start spinning and you curl over yourself, hands resting against your thighs. Dean rushes towards you, setting the coffee cups on the nightstand before dropping to his knees by the side of the bed, one of his hands coming up to the back of your neck, the other pressing against your forehead so you can drop the weight of your head into his palm.

“Hey,” he snaps. “Hey, hey, breathe.”

“Here, Dean.” Sam pushes a glass of water in front of you and Dean helps you tip your head back so you can drink from it.

You cough, pulling away to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “Thanks.”

Dean's watching you with narrowed eyes. “Okay?”

You nod slightly and make grabby hands for the coffee on the nightstand. “Yeah.”

He frowns like he thinks it's a bad idea but he hands you the coffee anyway, moving to sit next to you on the bed. One large hand settles between your shoulder blades as you sip the coffee, just resting there, keeping you upright. You drop your chin down so you can rest your forehead in your palm and try to think of nothing, try to forget why you're here but there's a pulsing ache all the way down your right side and every time you take in a breath your chest tightens so you drink your coffee as quietly as you can and try not to dissolve into tears.

Dean clears his throat. “We should check your stitches before we get back on the road.”

You swallow back the last of your coffee and it feels like glass in your throat; you'll never drink your mother's healing magical teas again, never feel her cool hands on your skin when you have a headache, you'll never, you'll never, you'll never -

“Hey, hey.” One of Dean's hands comes back up to your neck, the other one taking the empty cup from you and flipping it into the wastebasket. “You're okay. Lie back, c’mon, here, I gotcha.”

He guides you down to lie on your back on the bed, your legs dangling off the edge. You stare at the ceiling and do your best not to feel self conscious as his hands start to unbutton the flannel from the bottom up. You press your thighs together and try not to flush with embarrassment, you're wearing a tiny nude thong that wouldn't show under your dress, your pretty silk dress, covered in blood -

“Easy.” His voice is soft but there's steel in it too. “You're shaking.”

You stare at the ceiling and exhale slowly, trying not to think about Dean cutting your dress off your unconscious bleeding body. “Sorry.”

“I'm just gonna take a peek, try to relax.” His hands are warm when they come to rest on your exposed stomach. You lay still while his fingers peel up the edge of the bandage and you glance at his face, trying to read it but he's expressionless, like whatever horror show of blood and broken skin is under there doesn't phase him at all.

“Does it look infected?” you ask anxiously. 

“Nah, not really. A little red but other than that it looks okay, the antibiotics must be working.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me, we stitch each other up all the time, I know what I’m doing. Looks good,” he announces, and pats the medical tape back down. “Best to let it be for now, we really shouldn’t get it wet yet anyway.”

“Okay,” you agree, because you’ve never been hurt like this; you don’t know what to do without the healing magic that’s always been accessible to you through your mother, you have no choice but to trust him.

“I'll go pack up the car,” Sam offers. “You got this?”

_This_ meaning you, you assume, lying prone on your back, with a broken body and a heart full of grief. The caffeine is starting to kick in and you're regretting it, you're now more awake and therefore only more aware of how badly you hurt, how deeply and totally screwed you are.

You're an orphan on a demon’s hit list and your only chance of survival is the man next to you, sliding his hands under your shoulders to help you sit up. A groan tears out of you as pain flares down all the way into your hip and you collapse sideways into Dean, digging your fingers into his canvas jacket.

“Hey, okay, you're okay.” He slings his left arm around you, his hand cupping your shoulder.

“I just… need a minute,” you pant out, shocked all over again by it, the absolute betrayal of your body. 

You've never known pain like this before, your mother always healed you of any minor hurts or illnesses you had growing up. You only knew in theory, what it feels like to suffer like this, pain beyond what you were ever capable of conceiving, before now.

You breathe raggedly against his chest and try to focus on something other than the pain. His heart beats under your cheek and you close your eyes as you listen to it, that reassuring thump, and let your mind drift a little, holding onto the sound of his heart like a lifeline.

After a few minutes his phone buzzes and Dean pulls it out of his jacket pocket to look at the screen. “Sam's checking us out. Time to go.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“You wanna try walking to the car?”

You shake your head. Your stubbornness has burned away along with your pride, there's no point in fighting it anymore. Not when he's already seen you half naked and bleeding out, feverish and crying, lost and broken hearted.

You're too tired to pretend you aren't weak, you're on the edge of total darkness, part of you wishes he'd let you die in that room along with your mother.

“Alright, c’mere then.” He carefully shifts you around so you're sitting in his lap. “Put your arms around my neck.”

It hurts too much to lift your right arm so you hold on extra tight with your left. Big hands come under your thighs and Dean stands up in one swift motion to pick you up in a front piggyback. You hook your legs around his waist and press your cheek into the hollow of his throat where it's warm.

“Where are we going?” you ask, taking your bag when he hands it to you, sliding the strap around your right arm.

“Kansas.” He carries you across the room and turns the light out with his elbow before letting go of you with one hand to get the door open.

You blink against harsh morning sunlight and shut your eyes, clutching onto his neck when he kicks the motel room door shut. “What's in Kansas?”

“We have a place there.” He carries you through the parking lot where Sam is waiting by their shiny black muscle car.

Sam opens the back door and Dean helps you inside, covering the top of your head with his hand like policemen do on tv so you don't hit it on the door frame. You curl up in the backseat while the guys get into the front, trying to find a position that doesn't hurt your side before giving up and leaning back against the headrest with your legs crossed. Dean shifts the car into drive and you wince as loud music blares through the sound system. He peels out of the parking space and within a few minutes you're back on the highway, the sky outside a perfect cloudless blue.

You open your bag and there, underneath your wallet and the nasty chicken sandwich you never ate is the little bottle of pills Sam gave you yesterday. You quietly pop the bottle open and fish out a pill, screw the cap back on and drop your bag down to the floor. You swallow the pill dry, turn your head so you can look out the window, and watch the world fly by.


	3. smoke

You wake up in the backseat of Dean Winchester’s Impala, head tilted back at an awkward angle, the sun hanging low in a brilliant blue sky out the window. You sit up and swallow back a groan, your mouth is paper dry and you're terribly nauseous, the scenery flashing by in a sickening blur as Dean whips the car around a curve in the highway. 

“Um.” You lean forward and tap Sam’s shoulder. “Hey, do you have any water?”

“Hey you're awake, yeah, hang on.” Sam bends down and gets a bottle from under his seat, cracks the cap open and passes it back to you.

“Thanks.” You take slow sips, breathing through your nose, sick and a little disoriented. “How long did I sleep for?”

“Long enough to miss lunch,” Dean chimes in, and tosses a small bag of chips into the backseat. “Enjoy.”

“No thanks.” You push them onto the floor of the car with your toes and think about the sandwich that's probably rotting in your bag and you swear you can smell it, spiraling into a sense memory, flesh lighting on fire, smoke in your lungs, and you gag, one hand over your mouth.

“Hey.” Sam turns in his seat so he can look at you. “You feeling okay?”

Something sour rises up the back of your throat. “I think I might throw up.”

“Don't throw up,” Dean orders. “Not in my car, no way.”

You lean forward and rest your forehead on the back of Sam’s seat. “I'm trying not to.”

“Don't you dare, just hang on, hang on for me,” Dean says tightly, and swerves the car over to the right to pull onto the shoulder.

As soon as he gets the car in park you open your door and stumble outside. You're on the edge of a highway that looks out over a forest, the highway shoulder a strip of dusty cement and a dented metal guardrail to protect cars from swerving into the ditch. You hunch over, hands on your thighs, and retch but nothing comes up but bile. You cough, your eyes tearing up, and wipe your mouth on the edge of your sleeve.

There's a sudden squeal of tires and you straighten up in confusion, the Impala is still parked right next to you but a car up ahead has pulled over so quickly dust flies up around it. You can barely make out the silhouette of the two people who get out and start walking towards you; you sway where you're standing, lightheaded, watching as a man and a woman approach you and suddenly Sam jumps out, blocking them from you.

“Get in the car!” he shouts.

You move toward it, limping from the throb in your side, but then over Sam's shoulder you see one of them, the man, and he laughs as his eyes go black -

Black like Leader’s eyes when the demon possessed her.

You drag yourself towards the car and then Dean’s running right at them, you didn't even see him get out. You somehow get the door open even though you can't feel your body, like you've gone numb all over, and you fling yourself inside, curl up in the fetal position across the backseat and scream into your hand. You can hear shouting, the sound of bodies slamming together, and tears run down your face as you gasp into your palm, and then you aren't there anymore, you're tied to a chair and your eyes are burning from smoke and you're choking and your skin is being ripped apart and all you can hear is the sound of -

Screaming. People are screaming. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking so hard it hurts as you cry desperately into your hands. It suddenly goes quiet outside and then the doors to the car open and you start to scream again -

“Go, go, go!” Dean shouts.

You crack your eyes open and see Sam behind the wheel, his hand curving over the gearshift to slam the car into drive. Dean is curled over in the passenger seat, one of his hands pressed against his left eye, blood trickling down the side of his face.

“I got it,” Sam mutters, a little breathless, as he accelerates until the car is cruising down the highway. “Take care of that.”

Dean groans and heaves himself over the consol into the backseat, sitting near your head. You're stuck in place, curled over on your left side with your feet pressed against the door. Your heart is still pounding in your chest, eyes full of tears, just starting to realize that you aren't in immediate danger. Next to you Dean bends down under the driver's seat and digs out a small duffle bag, roots around and pulls out a washcloth.

“I need to borrow this,” he announces as he takes your water bottle from the cup holder. He pours some onto the fabric and then presses it to the cut above his eyebrow, wincing. “Your demon’s got some friends.”

He doesn't say it in a mean way but it makes you flinch, the implication that this is all your fault, that you've brought this upon them, the reminder (as if you needed it) that there's a demon out there who wants you dead, that you've lost everything that ever mattered to you and these guys are the only thing standing between you and a body bag.

“Not - not - not,” you stutter, shaking too hard to get the words _not my demon_ out, because you didn't ask for this, you never wanted this, this was never supposed to happen.

Your mother promised you this would never happen but now she's just a pile of bones and you have nothing left of her but your grief like a throat full of smoke, suffocating you.

“Hey, it's alright. It's not your fault.” Dean pats the top of your head clumsily, pressing the wet cloth against the cut on his face.

You can't stop shivering, like your body is literally trying to shake off the fear, your arms crossed tightly against your chest, your bottom lip trembling. “S- sorry.”

“I just said it wasn't your fault, didn't I?” He rolls his shoulders and tips his head back. “Dicks. Them, not you.”

You exhale through the tightness in your chest, a few stray tears sliding out of the corners of your eyes when you shut them. You're too exhausted by the adrenaline crash to say anything else so you lie there and shake and shake until your teeth clatter together.

His hand returns to your head, fingertips rubbing against your skull. “Hey, you cold?”

You nod a little, eyes still closed, wishing that you could just fall asleep, that this could all magically go away because you're exhausted and everything hurts and you're not dead yet but your life feels like it's over anyway.

Dean bends over and pulls a thick grey blanket from underneath the seat and lays it over you, spreading it out so it covers your bare feet. “Better?”

“Thanks,” you whisper thickly, and try to stop crying but you're overwhelmed by the small kindness, you drape one of your hands across your eyes so he can't see your face, humiliated all over again at what a total mess you are.

“You're welcome,” he says back, one of his hands resting on your shoulder for a moment. 

It's shocking almost, the weight of it on you, something real grounding you here, and you snake your left hand up to curl your fingers around his wrist, hot skin under your touch. You feel him go rigid next to you and you curl up tighter under the blanket, feeling the beat of his pulse against your fingertips. You’re desperate, just for that little contact of skin on skin, someone warm and real and so close and if you keep your eyes closed you can almost pretend it's someone who loves you.

He and Sam are the only people you have now. This is it, this man next to you, the only thing that's keeping you from completely breaking apart.

“Please,” you whisper.

You feel it when he lets out a sigh but then he squeezes your shoulder and keeps his hand where it is. “Okay,” he says quietly. “It's okay.”

You lay there like that, curled up tight under the blanket, the weight of Dean’s hand on your shoulder, until you finally stop shivering. You zone out, eyes shut, your hand still loosely curled around his wrist. You take in one shuddery painful breath after another, the pulse in your side becoming a familiar sensation and that scares you, how easily you’re getting used to it, how you’ve already forgotten how you used to feel, how you used to be - independent, healthy, beautiful, loved, _safe_. Your whole life ahead of you, blooming with possibilities.

And now you’re broken.

*

When you wake up again it’s dark outside, headlights from passing cars flashing over your face. Dean is sleeping next to you in the backseat, his jacket pillowed under his head. You groan quietly as you push yourself up with your hands; when you look out the window all you see is the faint glow of the moon in the sky and the reflection of your face staring back at you. Sam is leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other propping up his head. You scoot forward a little and rest your chin on the passenger seat.

“Hey,” you whisper to Sam. “What time is it?”

“Oh hey.” Sam turns his head back for a moment to flash you a tired smile. “It’s late. Almost one.”

“In the morning?”

“Mmhm.”

“Have you been driving this whole time?”

His eyes meet yours for a second in the rearview mirror. “Yeah.”

You glance sideways at Dean, who’s dead asleep and slumped against the door, head tilted back against his balled up jacket. “How long have we been sleeping?”

“Long time,” Sam answers vaguely.

“Sorry,” you offer, although you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for. Everything, you guess.

His face cracks into a ghost of a smile. “It’s okay, I’m used to it.”

“Right. You’re a hunter,” you say pointlessly. You know how they work - driving from town to town, job to job, rolling stones with shotguns and knives.

“It’s kind of in the job description,” Sam agrees.

“Don’t you get homesick?”

Sam shrugs and glances back quickly at Dean before looking back at the road. “No, I never really had a home to miss. I grew up like this, hell, this car is as much my home as anything else.” He lets out a dry laugh. “I guess I like the idea that home can be something you carry inside of you, or, I don’t know. In the people we love. That it’s more about a feeling than a place.”

You swallow down tears and don’t say anything back, because that’s how you felt about your mom.

An hour later you see the glow of golden arches in the distance and signs start showing up for the upcoming exit: McDonalds, Subway, Days Inn. Sam glances back at you for a second and changes lanes. “Bathroom break?”

“Yeah, sure,” you agree, reaching up to run your fingers through your hair and wincing at all the tangles. 

He puts his turn signal on and gets onto the exit ramp, following the signs until you can see the McDonalds. Sam pulls into the parking lot and parks in the spot closest to the entrance. The music shuts off when he turns the car off and next to you Dean twitches, a full body shake, his head snapping towards you for a second like he’d forgotten you were here before his hand goes up to the scabbed over cut above his eyebrow, the skin around it bruised purple-blue.

Sam comes around to your door to help you out of the car once you’ve got your wedges on while Dean climbs out on the other side, rubbing his eyes. Your injury still hurts but you don’t feel that painful ache everywhere, the antibiotics must be working. Sam wraps one long arm around your waist and you turn into him, pressing your cheek against his flannel shirt as he helps you shuffle across the parking lot.

The fluorescent lighting inside the McDonald's makes your eyes burn, you blink rapidly and squint a little, making out the bathrooms set into an alcove to your right. You reach out to lean against the wall as you begin walking towards them but stop when Dean shoulders past you, his body blocking yours.

“Hang on,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep. “Let me sweep it first. Sam, coffee?”

Sam nods, looking pale and tired in the harsh lighting. “Sure.”

He leaves you there with Dean, who pushes the door open to the women’s bathroom while you shuffle along behind him. It’s small, two stalls and a sink, Dean pushes both of the stall doors open to make sure they’re empty before leaning back against the wall to let you through.

“I’ll be right outside,” he tells you. “Yell if you need me.”

You nod wearily as a surge of residual panic floods your body, remembering the shock of earlier today, demons and hunters fighting on the side of the highway, fighting over you. He gives you a look, not quite a smile but something close to it and walks out, the door swinging shut behind him when he leaves. 

You go into a stall, use the toilet, flush, go over to the sink and wash your hands with the neon pink soap that comes out of the dispenser, dry them with a scratchy paper towel and toss it into the trash. You take a deep breath that makes your side twinge and force yourself look at your reflection in the mirror. 

Your long hair is frizzy and matted, your skin is a strange milky kind of pale and there are bruised looking circles under your eyes. You get your hands wet again and run your fingers through your hair, trying to work out the worst of the knots, until your hair is damp but still a tangled mess so you sigh and give up, examining your face instead. Your lips are dry and cracking and your cheeks look a little hollow. You stand there, staring at yourself, wondering how much weight you could have possibly lost in two days, and remember the sandwich buried at the bottom of your bag.

You dig it out and throw it away, your stomach turning at the smell. The only things left in your bag are your cell phone, wallet, and the bottle of pills Sam gave you. You take the cap off and stare down at the little white ovals, there have to be at least fifteen pills left. You look back in the mirror and the girl you see is a stranger, broken and orphaned, lost.

Your eyes fill with tears and you choke back a sob. You shake a pill out into your palm and swallow it with water from the tap before you can think too hard about it. You’ve experimented a little, typical college underage drinking, the occasional joint or pill but this is different; this isn’t fun, this is the only defense you have against an existential kind of pain you aren’t sure you can survive. You grip the edge of the sink and close your eyes, tears hot against your eyelids. You try to breathe through the lump in your throat and the tightness in your chest, grief carving through your insides like the knife the demon used to slice open your skin.

The knock on the door startles you so badly that you smack your elbow on the edge of the sink as you spin around. You cry out and the door flies open; you stumble back in terror but it’s only Dean, looking wildly around the bathroom before squinting at you, standing in the middle of the tiny room alone, clutching your elbow.

“Alright?” he asks.

You blink watery eyes at him and tears spill over, trickling down your cheeks. “You scared me.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to.” He walks over to the sink and pulls a few paper towels from the dispenser. “Here.”

You wipe your face and ball up the paper towels before throwing them away. Next to you Dean’s watching you with an attentiveness that makes you nervous and you wonder all over again, at who this man is, why he’s here, helping you, willing to get hurt to protect you.

“C’mon,” he says. “We should go.”

You blink at him and maybe it’s the pill starting to kick in or maybe it’s grief but you’re suddenly so tired that you have to resist the urge to slide to the floor, curl up in the fetal position and go to sleep, give up and close your eyes in the bathroom of a fast food restaurant.

“Hey.” His face looms in front of you; he’s bent over so you’re level with his eyes, that startling green you remember from the night he and Sam saved your life. “We gotta keep moving, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, because you’re not far gone enough to believe that giving up is really an option, no matter how alluring it may feel in the moment.

“Atta girl.” He gives you a warm smile that would make you melt under different circumstances as he reaches down to take your hand, and you lean into him and allow him to lead you out of the bathroom.

Sam is waiting by the glass doors, two large cups of coffee and a paper bag in his hands. “Here, thought you might want this,” he says to you, and passes you one of the cups.

“Thank you,” you say gratefully, cradling it between your palms.

“Switch?” Sam asks Dean, and when Dean nods Sam hands him the other coffee cup and the bag of food along with the car keys.

You clutch your cup in one hand and hold onto Dean with the other as the three of you walk back across the parking lot to the car. Sam gets into the back seat and Dean walks you around to the passenger side of the car, helps you ease into the seat and shuts your door for you before jogging back around and getting into the driver's seat. Sam is stretched across the back, somehow managing to fold his body up enough to fit mostly onto the seat. You put on your seatbelt and kick off your wedges so you can cross your legs under you. Dean starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, driving one handed so he can drink his coffee.

You take a sip of your own and sigh, overcome by almost overwhelming relief at the familiar taste, that even in this upside down universe where your family is dead and your life depends on two men you barely know you still have the comfort of a warm drink. Dean glances back at Sam and turns the music up, just a little, the pounding of drums vibrating through the speakers as he steers the car back on the highway.

Normally you’d feel compelled to talk to him at least a little bit since it's just the two of you up front and Sam already asleep in the back, dredge up enough good manners to entertain Dean so he doesn’t feel like a chauffeur, but the combination of the painkiller and the caffeine makes you feel strange: your mind blank, tongue heavy in your mouth, and anyway Dean seems content to drive and nod his head along to the music so you stay silent and drink your coffee. 

You zone out, watching signs and billboards for casinos and strippers and restaurants fly by, and think about Natalie, your best friend since freshman year of college, who loved road trips, who was your first real friend outside the oppressive force of the coven members, all those strange witch children you grew up around who thought they were better than you because their parents allowed them to practice magic and the kids at public school who avoided you at all costs because they thought you and your mother were weird and creepy for wearing pentagrams and crystal amulets, hamsa charms to protect from the evil eye and rose quartz for healing, your clothes always reeking of burnt sage and lavender.

It never really bothered you back then, that no one at school wanted to be your friend, that the kids in the coven rejected you for being on the fringe as much as they revered you from afar because of your mother, your lineage, your unclaimed power. You never felt ostracized or ashamed, never absorbed any of the judgements they made about you because you had your mother, who was beautiful and talented and gave you everything you ever asked for.

You never needed anyone else.

And now she’s gone.

Dean must sense your internal shift towards despair because he glances sideways at you, one eyebrow a little cocked. “You doing okay?”

You shrug uneasily and pick at the lid of your cup. “Guess that depends on your definition of okay.”

He shakes out a few fries from the paper bag resting across his thighs and pops one into his mouth. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Oh come on.” He grins and folds another fry into his mouth. “I’m offering to share here.”

The smell of flesh burning, smoke in your throat and your nose, bile rising in your throat. You breathe slowly through your mouth, a little lightheaded. “No thanks.”

He shrugs. “Your loss.”

You take a sip of coffee and watch him drive for a minute, until your curiosity wins out. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

You look out your window but it’s still dark outside, all you can see is the moon and glowing green and white mile markers and the reflection of your pale face looking back at you, black hollows where your eyes are supposed to be, like a ghost. “The night you and Sam saved me…”

“Yeah?”

“How did you even know I was there?”

“Oh.” To your surprise he flashes you a grin. “An angel told me.”

You choke back a disbelieving snort, it’s the closest you’ve come to genuinely laughing in three days. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

His grin widens, like you’re amusing him. “You don’t believe me?”

You stare at him but his expression is guileless, lips curved up in an easy smile. “Seriously?”

“Yep. Gave us the address and everything.”

Your head spins, you put your cup down between your thighs so you can press one palm against your forehead. “But - _why_?”

“Why what?”

“Why would an angel ask hunters to save me? I’m - I’m nobody, why would they even care?”

The smile gets wiped off his face. “That ain’t true,” he argues in a low voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You aren’t a nobody. You’re a girl who was promised to a demon, if you didn’t have that tattoo he’d be riding around in your body right now with all that witch mojo you’ve got going on, gee, I wonder why angels would be interested in stopping that?”

His sarcasm stings and you curl away from him, picking up your cup so you can finish what’s left of your coffee. “You didn’t kill him though,” you retort quietly.

You instantly regret it, but Dean only nods. “By the time we got there the fire had already started. We couldn’t even, everyone else was already…” To your surprise he trails off, sounding choked up, before he continues. “Getting you out alive was the priority.”

You stretch your legs out and tap your feet anxiously against the floor of the car. “I don’t remember that. You guys getting me out.”

“We had to move pretty fast, because of the - you were already unconscious. We picked you up and got out before the whole damn place went up.”

“Leader - I mean the demon,” you correct yourself quickly. “It - did it leave me there?”

Dean works his jaw. “Seems like it.”

You shiver against a cold rush of panic. “Then how did they find us earlier?”

“I don't know but it’s pissed as hell that the sacrifice didn’t work. And that you survived.”

“Lucky me,” you mutter under your breath.

“Hey.” His voice is firm, commanding. “We’re going to kill him. We won’t let him get away with what he did.”

You nod, too tired and hurt to care about vengeance right now, but there’s something reassuring about Dean saying it anyway, the unspoken promise that maybe one day this will be over and you’ll be safe again. “Okay.”


	4. fields

The sun has just fully risen in the sky when Dean turns the car off of the main street he’s been driving down and onto a single lane road. You sit up a little, watching trees and hills pass you by as he drives deeper into the middle of nowhere.

“Where are we?” you ask, trying to ignore the sudden hysterical paranoid fear that he’s driving you out into the woods to slice you to ribbons and leave you where no one will ever find your body.

“Home base,” Dean answers cryptically.

Sam groans from the backseat. “We here?”

“Pretty much,” Dean answers, and points at something in the distance half blocked from your view by all the trees.

A few minutes later he pulls the car up alongside a hill and parks, undoes his seatbelt and leans his head back, looking exhausted and relieved. “We’re here.”

You crane your head out the window. “Where is here, exactly?”

“Come on.” Dean pockets his keys. “You’ll see.”

You slip your feet back into your wedges and carefully ease yourself out of the car. You squint up at the partially sunny sky; above you looms a creepy decrepit looking building with what might be a small entrance set into the side of the hill. You lean against the car as Sam and Dean collect their stuff and walk around to join you.

You look apprehensively at the creepy little door. “This is where you live?”

“It’s a family property,” Sam explains vaguely. “We stay here in between jobs.”

“In a creepy house in the middle of nowhere?”

Dean snorts. “It’s nicer inside.”

You look at him ambivalently. “You aren’t gonna lock me up in some torture chamber in the basement, are you?”

He grins widely, like you’re being funny. “Only If you ask nicely.”

“Dean,” Sam hisses, looking appalled.

“What? I’m kidding, she knows I’m kidding.” Dean rolls his eyes at Sam before offering you his arm and winking. “Don’t worry, we’d never lock you up down there.”

“Dean!” Sam shakes his head and scoops up a duffle bag. “Jesus.”

“It’s okay,” you say softly. It’s actually kind of nice, to be treated like a regular person, a fleeting moment of normalcy in the midst of your grief.

Dean helps you down the short flight of stairs and Sam gets the door open, raises an eyebrow at you and goes inside. You glance sideways at Dean, who gestures ahead of you. “Ladies first.”

You take a tentative step inside, Dean’s hand low on your back as he slips in behind you and shuts the door. It’s very dark, you reach out in front of you to grasp the back of Sam’s shirt as he leads you forward a few paces and then the lights turn on. Your mouth drops open, you’re standing in a huge space with crazy high ceilings, tables with computers and various chargers scattered across the surface, equipment that you don’t even recognize, a library off to one side, random books and weapons and artifacts everywhere you look, the furniture and decor favoring lots of wood and twisting metal, the overall effect masculine and heavy.

“Jesus,” you breathe out. “It’s like someone decided to put a museum inside a prison.”

Sam laughs but Dean rolls his eyes. “This is a lot nicer than prison, trust me.”

“I dunno,” you murmur uneasily, idly following Sam out of the room and down a hallway. “Kinda feels like being trapped in a giant metal box from my perspective.”

“A giant box with amenities,” Dean replies. “A giant, _demon proof_ box.”

“Oh right.” You deflate a little at the reminder, trailing your hand against the wall as Sam leads you into what looks like the kitchen.

“Please tell me we have something to make that resembles breakfast,” Dean groans. “I’m starving.”

Sam shrugs, rolls up the sleeves of his flannel and walks around a large table to open up a cabinet. You zone out watching him, idly noting how big this room is too, wondering what Sam meant by family property, if they were in some kind of a freaky hunter cult or one of those fringe militia groups you’ve heard of, hunters who stockpile weapons and live off the grid, waiting for the earth to burn.

You lean against the wall, suddenly so aware of everything - how tired you are, how hungry, how hurt - that it makes you lightheaded, you blink black spots out of your vision and press your palms against the wall and then Dean is right there in front of you, bending down so that you’re eye level with each other.

“Hey.” His eyes scan yours and you freeze, trapped between his body and the wall. “You okay?”

You can only stare at him, watching his face blur in and out of focus. You’ve been with guys before, you’ve had alcohol fueled hook-ups and slept in stranger’s beds and had awkward morning after conversation but you’ve never done this, stood with someone’s hands planted on the wall on either side of you and had a beautiful man stare at your face with perfect concentration. It makes you feel painfully vulnerable but also kind of exhilarated and that’s a shock all on its own, that you’re even capable of feeling anything like that right now.

Dean frowns. “When was the last time you ate something?”

You try but you honestly can’t remember so you shrug, watching as his frown deepens.

“We’ve got oatmeal!” Sam calls out.

Dean glances over his shoulder at Sam, his forehead wrinkled up. “Pass. I think I’ve got some bacon in the freezer.”

Sam shrugs. “Caylee?”

“Sure.” You raise your eyebrow at Dean and he must realize that he’s blocking you because he clears his throat and moves to the side so you can slowly walk over to the table and sink into a chair.

Dean wanders off to dig through a huge freezer while Sam heats water in a kettle. You fold your arms over the table and drop your head down. You breathe through the stretch in the back of your neck and shut your eyes, listening to the guys clang around the kitchen and whisper things to each other that you can’t quite catch.

You breathe slowly and try to tune out the noise, the exhaustion, the pain, using the trick your mom taught you when she tried to teach you how to meditate, the tips of your thumb and index finger of your left hand tapping together as you inhale and exhale. You’re supposed to say something as you do it, a mantra, _I am_ , something that starts like that, but you can’t remember how it ends, all you can remember is the sound of your mother screaming and you flinch hard, pushing your forehead against your arm.

“Hey, you hungry?” 

You turn your head to the left and Sam is hovering next to you, holding out a bowl of oatmeal. You force yourself to sit up and Sam gives you a tight smile as he sets the bowl down in front of you. You peer down at it and something in your chest twinges, he’s made the oatmeal loaded with sliced apples and a thick swirl of honey and even cinnamon sprinkled in the middle. He sits down across from you and digs into his own bowl, totally unassuming, like this is no big deal.

It freaks you out a little; you’ve grown up hearing horror stories about hunters - their brutality, their coldness, their paranoia. You don’t know how to reconcile that with the guy sitting across from you, someone who stitched up your skin with long elegant fingers and made you breakfast and has only looked at you with kindness and sympathy.

“Thanks,” you choke out, and press your palms against your eyes for a second, blinking back tears.

“Hey.” Sam leans across the table to gently brush the back of your hand with his fingertips. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you sniff. “It’s stupid.”

Sam raises a curious eyebrow and you sigh a little as tears slide out of the corners of your eyes, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “I’ve never had a guy make me breakfast before.”

“Oh.” Something flashes across his face, some emotion you can’t decipher, but then he gives you a soft smile and bobs his head. “Well, it’s an honor then.”

“I wouldn’t call oatmeal breakfast.” Dean plops down next to you, legs splayed, so casual and quietly confident that you can’t help but stare. “Look, you don’t even have any protein.”

Sam looks at the contents of Dean’s plate - three slices of bacon, hashbrowns drowning in ketchup, and two thick slices of toast slathered with butter and jam - and curls his lip up in a sneer. “Enjoy your heart attack on a plate.”

“Aw c’mon, this is a fully rounded meal, not Winchester Surprise.”

Sam coughs. “I’m sorry, what?”

You watch curiously as something in Dean’s expression flickers. “Nothing, just this thing Mom used to make.”

“Oh.” Sam’s mouth twists into a crooked little smile and he ducks his head. 

You get the impression they've stumbled into personal territory so you look away for a moment and then dig your spoon into your bowl to eat your oatmeal. Next to you Dean picks up a piece of bacon and folds it into his mouth, chews and gives Sam a broad smile. “Delicious.”

Sam laughs a little, shaking his head so his hair flops around, and the tension in the room dissolves. You slowly work your way through your food, you didn't realize how hungry you were until you started eating but your stomach feels like a closed fist and every bite you swallow hurts. A silence has settled over the three of you but it’s comfortable; you concentrate on eating, some part of you aware you need the food even though you’re starting to feel a little sick, like your body doesn’t remember what to do with it.

Eventually when you’re all finished Dean and Sam clear the table while you sit there, self conscious again, unsure of what you’re supposed to do now. Sam puts the dishes in the sink and Dean ambles back over to you, offering up a tired smile. “You wanna take a shower? You should keep your bandage dry but when you get out I’ll show you how to clean your stitches.”

You stare at him, some distant unresolved thought in the back of your head waking up. “Shower with what?”

He snorts. “We’ve got hot water princess, relax.”

“No, I mean, I don’t….” You stare up at him, horrified and confused. “Where’s my stuff? What happened to all my stuff? We didn’t even - oh my god, I left everything back at the house.”

“Yeeeah, about that.” Dean winces a little. “Thing is, after we took you back to the motel that night, your house was the first place the demon went. I checked it out the next morning, there was nothing - he didn’t really leave anything intact. I’m sorry.”

You get a memory flash, waking up that first morning in a motel room with Sam, Dean coming in, _So Cas is MIA, shocker, but she's definitely the right girl, cus I swung by her house and it's trashed._

“Oh my god,” you whisper, and drop your head down into your hands.

You do a panicked mental inventory of everything you didn’t even know you’d lost, until now: your entire wardrobe, your makeup, shoes, jewelry your mom gave you over the years, all of your books, your shiny silver MacBook Air, your yoga mat, your collection of crystals, your mala beads, your little carved Quan Yin statue, your deck of Tarot cards.

“Okay,” you say to yourself, trying not to completely flip out, tapping your knuckles against your temples like it’ll somehow help you focus. “Okay.”

It’s a loss that’s too much to really process: your mother, all the people you grew up with, your entire life, gone, destroyed because of Leader’s greed and ultimately, your mother’s inability to get out, get you both away before it was too late. You can barely feel your body anymore, you feel like you could float right up out of your chair and dissolve into nothing but then there’s a warm solid hand on your shoulder and when you look up Dean is crouched in front of you.

“I know this probably won’t make you feel better,” he says gently, “but it’s just stuff, it can be replaced.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re a Buddhist, I think that might be my threshold for crazy,” you croak out.

He tilts his head, looking confused. “Huh?”

“Non-attachment. It’s like, one of the major tenants of, you know what, never mind, it isn’t important. Is there a Target or something like that around here somewhere that we can drive to so I can pick up some stuff? I mean, I appreciate the loaner shirt and everything but I’ve been wearing the same pair of underwear for three days and it’s not like I know how long I’m going to be stuck here.”

Dean drops his head and over by the sink Sam starts to laugh like you’ve made a really great joke.

“What?” you ask, baffled.

“Oh, there’s a Target.” Dean scrubs his face with his hands. “An hour and a half back the way we just came.”

Sam offers to drive you there but Dean waves him off, saying, “I got more sleep than you did, whatever, it’s fine.”

You follow him through the maze of the bunker and back outside, over to where his car is parked. Dean opens the passenger door for you, offering up a weary smile as you climb inside. You try to smile back but you can’t quite get there, Dean shuts the door and you lean back in the seat, watching him walk around the front of the car, admiring the easy grace of his movements. He moves like a hunter - deliberately, fluidly, every single motion intentional. He opens the driver’s side door and slides into the car, shuts his door, and buckles up, every movement smooth and effortless; you look away so as not to get caught staring.

He starts the car and you wince as loud rock music pounds through the speakers. You lean towards the stereo and try to turn it down but Dean bats your hand away.

“No touching,” he says sternly.

“It’s eight in the morning,” you groan. “Have some compassion.”

He rolls his eyes and turns the music down just a bit. You roll your eyes right back and take your phone out of your bag. “Do you have an aux jack?”

Dean glances sideways at you and shakes his head. “Leave my stereo alone.”

“Dude, come on, I have a hundred Spotify playlists on my phone that would make my brain hurt less than whatever this is.”

“Spotiwhat?”

“Oh come on, you’re not that old. It’s a music app?”

“See, why would I need that when I’ve got everything I need right here?” He points gleefully to his stereo.

“Maybe ‘cus you want to listen to something that came out this millennium?” You hit the power button on your phone and watch with sinking disappointment as nothing happens. “Damnit.”

“What?”

“My phone’s dead.”

He shrugs. “You can buy a new charger.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. 

You stare out the window as Dean drives, the bunker fading in the rearview mirror. The trees fall away and pretty soon you’re driving down a dusty road with open land on either side, the occasional intersecting rural street, long grass swaying in the breeze, clouds rolling through a blue sky. It’s strangely idyllic and soothing to you, that even this far away from home you’re seeing the same sun, same sky, that there’s beauty to be found, even out here in the middle of Nowhere, America, all alone except for the man in the car next to you.

“This fascinating or something to you?” he asks eventually, when you’ve been sitting with your face pressed to your window for almost forty-five minutes.

“I’ve never seen the Midwest before,” you murmur. “It’s pretty.”

“When you spend your whole life driving back and forth through it everything starts to look the same, I guess.”

“What’s with the sunflowers?”

“Hmm?”

“On the signs. They all have sunflowers on them, is that the state flower or something?”

“Oh yeah.” He says it like it’s something he’s just remembered. “They’ve got fields of ‘em out here.”

“Really?” You squint, looking for flashes of yellow but all you see is endless green grass.

“Yeah, it’s kinda a tourist attraction.”

“That sound nice,” you offer. “I bet that’s beautiful.”

He shrugs. “Not like there’s a lot to do in Kansas outside of KC or Wichita.”

“Are you from here?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Lived here for awhile when I was a little kid. Different town though.”

You tilt your head, remembering what Sam said to you last night. _I never really had a home to miss._

“But you moved away?” you ask. 

He glances sideways at you, looking mildly disgruntled. “Someone’s feeling curious.”

You cross your arms over your chest and look back out the window. “Excuse me for wanting to know something about the guy I’m apparently going to be living with for the foreseeable future.”

You expect him to say something snarky back but Dean just sighs. “Fair enough.”

You turn your head to look at him, expecting him to say something else, but he just puts on his blinker and changes lanes, and after awhile, when he hasn’t caved under the heat of your eyes on him, you turn away to stare out the window again.

By the time you finally get to Target you can feel the tension in the car between the two of you, the fatigue, the aftershocks of two days on the road setting in. You manage to get yourself completely out of the car on your own but you wobble in your wedged sandals when you take your first step, the air shimmering over the blacktop of the parking lot.

Dean comes around to you and doesn’t even ask, just wraps one of his hands around your upper arm to help keep you upright. You squint at the sunlight bouncing off the cars as he leads you through the parking lot, slowing his pace down so you can keep up with him. You breathe out a sigh of relief at the blast of cold air that hits you when you walk through the doors, you’ve been wearing Dean’s flannel shirt for two days straight and you feel hot and grimy under the heavy fabric.

You take a second to orient yourself, feeling comforted by the sea of red and white, the reassuring familiarity of a superstore that always looks the same. You turn a little to the left and see the Starbucks logo glowing like a beacon and you feel that familiar kick in your nervous system, just at the promise of more caffeine.

“Coffee, then shop?” You tilt your head towards the Starbucks and Dean nods, a flash of desire gleaming in his eyes.

He wraps one arm over your shoulders casually but his grip is tight and then you realize it’s because the store is busy and there are people looking at you, at your exposed thighs and messy hair. You lean into Dean and stare straight ahead, pretending like you don’t feel humiliated but he must be able to tell how uncomfortable you are because he bends his head and says, “Okay?”

“I look like I’m on the walk of shame from hell,” you complain.

“That your way of saying you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?” he jokes.

“I’m embarrassed to be seen, period. I look like a prostitute.”

He snorts. “I hate you to break it to you but I’ve met some lovely ladies of the night on occasion and you’re way too covered up to be mistaken for one of them. You’re rocking a naughty girl next door vibe at the most.”

“Hot,” you deadpan.

“Oh _totally_ hot.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” He flashes you a wide grin that should be charming but you’re too exhausted and emotionally worn down to take any real pleasure in flirtatious banter right now.

You detangle yourself from Dean when you get to the Starbucks counter and order a triple shot nonfat vanilla latte before glancing back at Dean. “What do you want?”

“I’m good with regular coffee.” His hand goes to down to his back pocket but you elbow him before he can get out his wallet and hand your credit card over.

“You saved my life,” you say quietly. “At least let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

“Alright,” he agrees. “Thanks.”

You have to push your knuckles against your mouth at the absolute absurdity of that - him thanking you for a cup of coffee that costs a few bucks when he’s done so much for you, in ways you could never repay even if you tried.

When your latte is made you almost cry at your first sip, you close your eyes for a second just to relish the taste. Next to you Dean’s fidgeting, picking at the cardboard sleeve of his cup, eyes scanning constantly, his hand tight on your elbow.

“C’mon, we should keep moving.” He sounds tense. “Let’s get shopping.”

He grabs a shopping cart for you because you’re too weak to push it yourself so you curl your free hand around his bicep and lean into him as he wanders into the closest department, racks of boxes and boxes of shoes. Your head spins at the thought of replacing all your belongings, you can’t even think of everything you need. You decide you can’t worry about that right now and you’ll just have to do your best so you start scanning the racks for your size. You pick out a pair of black slip on sneakers and a pair of pale pink mesh athletic shoes and toss them in the cart and then as an afterthought grab a pair of grey knit slippers to wear around the bunker.

“Okay,” you sigh. “That should cover footwear for now.”

“What next?” Dean asks.

You shrug, already exhausted. “I kind of need everything.”

“Okay,” He does a full three-sixty degree slow motion spin to make sure no one is about to attack you, and takes a sip of coffee. “Let’s just keep moving and you grab whatever you need as you see it.”

You clutch your latte to your chest and curl the fingers of your free hand around the fabric of his shirt. “Okay.”

Because the universe is clearly out to ruin your entire life the next department happens to be lingerie. It’s not like you’re embarrassed about buying a bra but you’ve never gone shopping for underwear with a near stranger, and then you remember that Dean’s seen you in your underwear and you have to look away from him, pretending to examine a lacy hot pink bra you have absolutely no interest in. Your stitches start below the band of the sheer beige push up bra you were wearing under your dress but the idea of having to squeeze back into something with an underwire like that makes you wince so you find a three pack of simple cotton bralettes in black, cream and grey and toss them into the cart. You grab a pretty pale blue yoga bra in a fit of optimism that one day your side will be healed enough to work out again and then pick out underwear. You don’t see the point in trying to find anything particularly sexy, you pick out a few pairs of black ribbed boyshorts to sleep in and a handful of two-packs of mesh thongs in assorted colors. 

Dean leads you on to women’s clothing where you lean into him, overwhelmed, staring at brightly colored tank tops and cute dresses and tropical printed shorts. You take a sip of coffee and rest one palm against your forehead as you think, trying to come up with a basic mental list of everything you need. Next to you he looks around surreptitiously at the other shoppers and you shiver, remembering yesterday, demons coming for you on the side of a highway.

You give up on any sense of strategy and weave slowly between racks of clothes, picking out things in your size at random and tossing them into the cart - a pair of dark rinse skinny jeans, a few plain tank tops in white and grey, a soft oversized grey sweater, denim cutoff shorts, a cream and navy blue striped tee shirt, a cropped black hoodie, grey terry cloth shorts, an oatmeal colored henley, three pairs of leggings with mesh panels and side pockets in black, grey and dusty pink, a few loose fitting sleeveless tops in neutral colors, some detached part of your brain subconsciously choosing clothing that will mix and match well together, as if something like that even matters now.

Next to you Dean stares at the cart and raises an eyebrow. “Think you’ve got enough?”

You grab a five pack of white ankle socks and toss them into the cart. “After the last three days I think I’ve earned a shopping spree.”

He whistles, long and low. “Guess I can't argue with you there.”

The two of you roam past the children’s section, outdoor equipment, kitchenware. You pass bedding and stop in front of the towels to shoot Dean a questioning look. He shrugs but then gestures at them, nodding. “That’s not a bad idea, you know what…” 

He grabs a whole set of towels and stacks them on top of your new clothes. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you seriously not own any towels?”

“Of course we own towels. We just haven’t been back to the bunker for a few months, they’re probably molding in the bathroom as we speak.”

You wrinkle your nose as the two of you walk past sports equipment. “Where were you?”

“Doing stuff,” he says vaguely. 

“Hunting stuff?”

He shoots you a sharp look and hooks a left into the personal care section. “Work stuff.”

You try to be quick in cosmetics and snatch up just the basics - tinted moisturizer, concealer, brow gel, bronzer, mascara, lip balm. Dean waits patiently while you pick out makeup remover and face wash, witch hazel, skin cream, shower gel, a pack of razors, body lotion, shampoo and conditioner, a hairbrush, bobby pins, hair bands in every color of the rainbow, idly amused at the way his eyebrow goes incrementally higher and higher as you toss more stuff into the cart, like he’s amazed at everything you need and you wonder suddenly about that, the ability of a hunter to maintain a relationship with a woman when they spend all their time driving around the country killing things and rescuing people, cutting expensive dresses off stab wound victims before they can bleed to death.

“Hey.” Dean stops you halfway through the next aisle, head tilting towards the shelves. “You might want to stock up while we’re here.”

You stare blankly at him and then at the boxes of Tampax to your right and realize he’s telling you to buy tampons because for all you know you’re going to be stuck here in Kansas for months with the infamous Winchesters in their creepy underground hideout because your mother got murdered by a demon and there’s a price on your head and your only chance of not ending up dead like your mom is the man standing in front of you, apparently completely unphased by feminine hygiene products.

“Oh,” you say, and then you’re laughing hysterically, hands slapping over your mouth as your eyes fill up with tears.

“Whoa, hey, hey, Caylee.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and you stare up at his tear blurred face, dizzy.

You blink and feel tears roll down your face; your chest tightening up as panic crashes around inside of you because you’re alone, you’ve lost everything and for all you know this is what the rest of your life will be life, always running, never feeling safe, you’ll never see your mother again -

“Look at me,” Dean snaps.

You blink your eyes open; you hadn’t realized they were shut. You sway forward against the weight of his hands as you stare up at clear green eyes. You wish you knew him better, that you could press your face into his chest and hide from the world, but you don’t know him, all you really know is that he’s a dangerous man with steady hands and lightning fast reflexes who somehow has the foresight to think about mundane things like tampons.

“Look, you’ve got two choices,” he says in a low voice. “You can stand here and have a full blown meltdown in the middle of Target, which, no offense, would be kind of a cliched thing to do in the feminine hygiene aisle, or you can take a deep breath and pull it together so we can finish this up and get back in the car, where you can cry or scream or do whatever you need to do in relative privacy. Up to you.”

You take a few shuddering breaths and pull one arm out of his grip to rub tears out of your eyes. You swallow back something thick in your throat and nod, sniffing. “Okay,” you mutter. “Okay, yeah.”

You grab a box of tampons and place it ceremoniously in the center of the cart. Dean laughs a little before slinging his arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, let’s go buy you some liquor, you’ve earned it.”

He looks down for a second to give you an evaluating look. “You are legal to drink, right?”

“I’ll be twenty-four in September,” you tell him. “I took a year off between high school and college.”

Dean grins and it strikes you then, how beautiful he is, even in the store’s terrible harsh fluorescent lighting. “What’s your poison? Wine? Beer? Tequila?”

“I want vodka,” you decide. “Good vodka.”

“Good vodka,” he says approvingly. “You’ve got it.”

“I’ve earned it,” you repeat, kind of stunned at that line of thinking, but he isn’t wrong, even though it doesn’t feel like you really did anything.

But you survived. 

You’re a survivor.


	5. water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too detailed or gruesome but there is a description of Caylee’s injury in the last scene of this chapter.

After you check out at the registers (the total cost surreal, the most money you’ve ever spent in one place, everything purchased with a credit card your mother’s accountant pays in full every month with money from your trust and therefore not a problem but a shock nonetheless) you change in Target’s locked family bathroom while Dean waits right outside the door with the rest of your bags like a dutiful boyfriend.

Or a bodyguard. Which is closer to the truth but you don’t like thinking about him like that, because all it does is remind you of how much danger you’re in.

You strip naked, half afraid of what you’ll see in the mirror once you peel your thong off and straighten up. Your reflection looks haggard in the harsh bathroom lighting; you can see the shadow of your cheekbones and your ribcage through your skin, the deep circles under your eyes, the bruise on your elbow from when you smacked it on the sink in the McDonalds last night.

You rip open the plastic wrap of one of the thong packs, yank off the tag and step into a pale pink mesh pair. Your old underwear gets crumpled up and shoved into the trash can, you pull on one of your new bralettes and kneel on the cold bathroom floor to dig through your new clothes. You put on the denim shorts and the striped tee and then, because you’re freezing in the air conditioning, the grey sweater. You think about taking a minute to brush out your hair and then remember you’re going to shower when you get back to the bunker and figure it can wait.

You peel the price sticker off the sole of the black sneakers and slip your feet into them, fold up Dean’s borrowed shirt and jam it into the Target bag. You pull out your new sunglasses, an oversized pair of gold rimmed tinted aviators, slide them over your face, hook the Target bag around your wrist and straighten up.

This time the girl in the mirror looks like someone you recognize: a girl who wears sweatpants to class and stays up late drinking wine with her best friend, the kind of girl who goes to Target with her boyfriend on a pretty summer morning. You blend in like this, you’re just another cute girl with messy wavy hair and bloodshot eyes hidden behind stylish sunglasses.

_I. Am. So. Brave._

The mantra pops into your head unprompted and you curl over to grip the edge of the sink, remembering the first day of high school, fourteen and skinny and scared, your mom saying the words for you as you tapped your thumb against each finger until you calmed down.

You let out a shaky breath and bring your left thumb to your pointer finger to try it: I. _tap_ Am. _tap_ So. _tap_ Brave. _tap_

It doesn’t really make you feel better but doing the action helps anyway because it makes you feel a little bit more like yourself, remembering what it was like to be that girl, someone who always had a safety net made of magic, who believed the light always won and that crystals and prayers and positive intentions were enough to protect her.

Dean actually does a double take when you exit the bathroom, which confirms your belief that you no longer look like something he peeled off the road. You flip your hair over your shoulder and reach for his arm, sore and exhausted and then you remember that you’ve been up since one in the morning and you wonder how you’re even moving.

“Ready?” He looks a little itchy, like he can’t wait to get the hell out of the store.

You loop your arm around his and you aren’t sure what compels you to do it but you lean into him and rest your head on his shoulder. You’re so tired you could fall right over and there’s something about him that’s so steady and sure, like if you did that he’d just scoop you up and carry you out to the car like he did yesterday morning and then your head spins, the realization that only three days ago you were curling your hair for your college graduation ceremony.

“Is that a yes?” Dean asks, his voice low and hesitant.

“I’m really tired,” you say quietly.

“I know you are, kid.” There’s a heaviness in his voice that scares you a little, like he knows exactly what you mean.

You sniff and close your eyes for a second so you don’t start crying, and tighten your grip on his arm.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let's get out of here.”

You follow him out the sliding glass doors and back outside into the oppressive heat of the parking lot. When you get to the car Dean pops the trunk and you catch a glimpse of what looks like a shotgun, coils of rope, and some painted runes as he tosses your bags in. You get into the passenger seat and wince at how hot it’s gotten, Dean opens all the windows and runs the air conditioning on high for a few minutes with the car still in park, wiping his forehead with the edge of his sleeve before pulling off his flannel, revealing a thin grey crewneck tee and straining biceps.

You peel your sweater off and drape it over you lap before you buckle your seatbelt and slip off your new sneakers so you can fold your legs up on the seat. He pulls out of the parking space and you look out the window as you tap your fingers together, _I. Am. So. Brave_ , and stare out at the cloudless blue sky as Dean turns onto the street at the end of the parking lot and accelerates, fingers drumming along to the blast of the music coming from the speakers.

*

By the time you get back to the bunker you’ve lost any strength you’d managed to dredge up, you’re achy from so much time sitting in the car and there’s a painful sharp throbbing behind your eyes. You tap your fingers together but you don’t feel brave. You feel gutted, in shock all over again at the understanding that this is where you live now, that instead of celebrating your graduation with your mom or going out with Natalie or walking to your favorite coffee shop with your laptop to job hunt you’re here, in a hideout with two hunters, men who routinely kill witches but they saved you, because an _angel_ told them to, and left your mother’s body behind to burn to ash.

Instead of parking outside again Dean pulls the car into a garage inside the bunker that’s roughly the size of a small air hanger. You drag yourself out of the car, leaning against the door when you shut it as your head spins, the oatmeal Sam made you hours ago not enough to keep you going after two days on the road with no sustenance but coffee. 

Dean gets all your bags out of the trunk, sliding the plastic loops over his forearms, and gives you an evaluating look. “You coming?”

“Yeah.” You clutch your sweater in one hand and trudge around the car to him, slipping your hand around his bicep without even really thinking about it, like it’s just part of your routine now.

He leads you back through the maze of the bunker and into a hallway with blue and white walls and wooden doors on either side. “You can take a guest room,” he informs you, and uses his foot to open a door on your left.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

You brush past him to go into the room to check it out while he sets your bags down. It’s nicer than you expected it to be - a queen sized bed complete with pillows and a burgundy comforter, a dresser, a mirror hanging over it. You mentally compare it to your room at home, your seafoam and cream printed duvet cover, your alter table with your Quan Yin statue and your crystals, the photo collage of you and your mom framed over your desk, your bookshelf overflowing with old notebooks and fantasy paperbacks and textbooks. And then you realize you’ll never sleep in your bed again, never meditate sitting on your suede yoga mat facing the bay window so you could feel the sun on your face, never do schoolwork at your old desk, because it’s all gone, destroyed by the demon who killed your mother.

You stumble sideways as the room blurs out of focus, a crashing wave of loss hitting you so hard it physically hurts, your chest seizing up like you’re having a heart attack.

Dean must be able to tell you’re on the edge of losing it because he launches off the doorway towards you but your knees give out first and you keel over, some kind of guttural sound tearing out of your throat. You press your forehead to the cool floor as everything spins around you, curled over in child’s pose, every muscle in your body shaking, and scream into your folded arms.

He’s saying something to you in a low voice but it just sounds like noise, you can't really hear any distinct words over the awful uncontrollable keening sounds that are coming out of your mouth. It’s like there’s a storm inside of you breaking you apart from the inside out and all you can do is press your hands against the floor and let it rip you into pieces as you gasp for air between choking sobs.

A hand comes to the back of your neck and you recoil with a shriek, remembering Leader’s fingers digging into your skin, holding you down, your mother screaming for you across the basement as flames leapt up between you -

“Sam!” Dean shouts. “I need some help here!”

Tears pour down the sides of your face and onto the floor, the distant sound of Sam’s shoes squeaking from down the hall but all you really hear is the cries of your mother, the coven members, as they started to burn.

“C’mon, you gotta breathe,” Dean says, his hand hovering above your head but not directly touching it. “Seriously, you’re gonna make yourself puke.”

You open your mouth to tell him you aren’t going to throw up but all that comes out is a heaving guttural sob and you think maybe he might be right. 

“What happened?” Sam yells, leaning in the doorway, his body just a blur through your tears when you turn your head to the side to look at him. “Dean!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Dean sounds vaguely insulted. “She just - started doing this.”

“Yeah, well she watched her mom and a bunch of people she grew up with die a few days ago while a demon tried to kill her, I think we can understand what she’s going through.”

You don’t hear what Dean says back to him, your throat aches from screaming and your eyes burn. Sam sits down on the floor next to Dean, big hands held out towards you, like you’re supposed to go to him but you can’t move, you can’t do anything but lie on the ground and cry.

“Caylee.” Sam’s voice is so soft, just above a whisper. “Caylee, c’mere, I gotcha.”

He tries to pick you up under your arms but you go boneless in his hold and collapse half over his lap, your face buried in the seam of his thighs. You clutch onto his jeans and sob into his legs because they’re all gone and you have nothing left but a broken body and magic buried so deep inside you it might as well not exist and it certainly can’t get you out of where you are now - alone, orphaned, lost in your worst nightmare.

Sam curls over you, one of his large hands holding your shoulder and the other brushing your hair off your face before resting against your forehead. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You don’t know how long the three of you sit on the floor while you cry out an ocean of grief into Sam’s legs, shaking with your whole body, your side aching from the relentless sobs that you choke out, Sam’s jeans soaked with your tears.

Eventually, like all storms, it comes to an end. Your tears slow to a light trickling, your lungs relax, you stop heaving with the force of your cries. The room grows quiet except for the ragged sound of your breathing and the scritch scratch of Sam’s fingers stroking your hairline. You turn your head sideways to the right, cheek pillowed on Sam’s thigh. Dean’s sitting a few feet away with his back against the side of the bed and you think you should be ashamed, of how completely you broke down in front of both of them, but all you feel right now, deep down in your stomach, is a hard rock of guilt.

“It’s my fault,” you mumble. “It’s all my fault.”

“Hey.” Dean frowns and slides across the floor so his hip is next to your bent legs. “Don’t talk like that. Course it’s not your fault.”

You sniff and wipe your nose with the back of your hand. “They were all there because of me,” you whisper, your voice frail and scratchy. “They died because of me.”

“They died because their coven leader made a deal with a demon. That’s not on you.”

“I should have known something was wrong,” you insist tearfully. “When my mom called me. Going over there wasn’t the plan, I should have been able to tell there was something wrong.”

“They made her do that,” Sam says gently. “If she hadn’t been able to get you there they probably would’ve tracked you down and taken you.”

“She didn’t warn me.” You go over it again in your head: the phone call, her casual tone, _would you mind picking me up sweetie, and come inside for a minute so everyone can see how pretty you look?_ “She made me think everything was fine. Why” - your voice cracks. “Why would she do that?”

“She was a badass super witch,” Dean says. “She probably thought she’d be able to stop them.”

You think about your mother, trapped in another chair across the room with the rest of the coven, screaming for you as you sat there in terror, crying out for her because the only thing that could have saved you was magic you didn’t know how to perform. You were helpless, you couldn’t save her, you couldn’t do anything but watch as the fire rose up around you and Leader put her hand on your neck.

You shiver at the memory. Sam rubs your arm and you realize for the first time how intimate this is, how vulnerable you are like this, crying your heart out on the floor in front of both of them. You’re a raw nerve with a broken heart and split skin in the custody of two hunters, men twice your size, killers. But if you know anything it’s that they’re invested in your safety, your wellbeing, even if you don’t totally understand why. 

Nothing makes sense anymore and it’s easier right now to surrender to it than to resist. There’s nothing for you to fight for anyway, nothing feels like it matters right now, not without your mom.

“Hey,” Dean says. “How about that shower? I still gotta clean your stitches.”

You shrug listlessly, the idea of standing up long enough to wash your hair seems exhausting.

“Might feel good,” Sam coaxes.

“Okay,” you sigh, because it’s not like you have anything better to do and at least it will give you a little privacy, a chance to pull yourself together.

Sam helps you sit up and you kneel on the floor to dig through all your new stuff. You put all your toiletries into one of the Target bags while Dean leans against the doorway, waiting for you. You loop the plastic handles around your wrist and manage to cross the room to him, your temples throbbing, Sam right behind you with one hand hovering behind your back in case you lose your balance.

“I’ll go make lunch,” Sam offers.

He pats your shoulder gently and turns down the hallway, leaving you alone with Dean, who slings his arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, the bathroom’s this way.”

Your new shoes squeak against the white floor tiles as Dean leads you to the bathroom, pushing the door open and guiding you inside. You put down the shopping bag and lean against the wall while Dean flips the light on and gestures at the shower. “Try to keep your bandage dry while you’re in there. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll help you wash your stitches.”

“Okay.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “You gonna be okay alone in here?”

You aren’t sure if he’s referring to your inability to stand up on your own for more than a few minutes at a time or the full blown screaming meltdown he just witnessed. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t even hold yourself up,” he points out.

You take a deep breath and push yourself away from the wall so you’re standing upright. “Look, I know you’ve practically seen me naked already but I’m not really in the mood for a repeat performance right now.”

Because Dean is apparently unflappable he doesn’t even blink. “I can face the wall if it makes you more comfortable.”

You weigh your desire for ten minutes to yourself with the fact that you’re lightheaded and probably would be better off with him close by. “How about you wait outside and I’ll yell if I need you?”

“Okay,” he says easily. “Let me know when you’re ready for me.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Sure.” He walks out and shuts the door gently behind him.

You immediately sink back against the wall, blinking back black spots from the corners of your vision. You let your eyes shut and focus on the coolness of the tiled wall against your skin, breathing slowly as you tap your fingers together until you feel a little steadier. You slip out of your shoes and go down on your knees to take your new towel out of the bag and hang it over the metal bar drilled into the wall. You open up the package of razors and pull one out, slide the plastic guard off and stare down at the blade glinting in the light, shining like Leader’s knife had when she wielded it. 

It wasn’t supposed to be used as a weapon; it was ceremonial, a long serrated blade and runes engraved over the handle. Leader had used it to cut up herbs on the altar and dipped it in all kinds of oils when she summoned the demon, pricked the tip of her finger with it to use her own blood for the spell. It was only when the demon couldn’t get into you and possessed Leader instead that the knife was held up high above you, flames reflecting off the blade, before it swung through the air and into your skin, the last thing you remember the absolute shock of it, pushed past terror into something worse, total disbelief, unable to understand that this was really happening.

And then… waking up on that table. Your head cradled in Dean’s hands, his voice talking you down and singing you into sleep.

“Pull it together,” you mutter under your breath, and put the razor down on the ledge of the shower.

You find your shampoo, conditioner, and body wash and open all the caps, line them up neatly on the shower floor and strip off all your clothes. You fold them up and leave them on the edge of the sink and get into the shower, carefully angling your right side away from the spray when you turn the water on. It takes less than a minute for it to get hot and you let out a long relieved sigh at the feeling of the water pounding down on your shoulders. You tilt your head back to get your hair wet and let your eyes close, reaching one hand out to brace it against the slick tiled wall so you don’t slip. You take your time washing yourself, avoiding your right side. You shave under your arms and your legs, shampoo your hair twice and run conditioner through it. 

Sam was right, it does make you feel a little better, just being clean again. You rinse the conditioner out of your hair and turn the water off, step out of the shower and wrap the towel around yourself. You take your bottle of face wash out and put it on the edge of the sink, along with your new deodorant stick, tinted moisturizer and body lotion, amazed at how luxurious it seems now, just to be able to wash your face. You use a new washcloth, marveling at how good it feels when you’re done. You apply tinted moisturizer to your face and sit naked on the floor over the towel to apply lotion, smoothing your hands over your skin.

You take your time, your body unfamiliar to you after three days on the run. You look pale and weak, your grief has carved out hollows under your cheekbones and your ribs and the jutting curve of your hips and it makes your head spin, that the demon took everything from you, even your body; you fold forward to press your face into your thighs so you can breathe through your nose until you don’t feel like you’re going to be sick anymore.

You put your underwear and bralette back on and step into your shorts. The bandage running down your side goes so low that you have to leave them half unzipped with the waistband rolled over so Dean will be able to get to all of your stitches and a shiver runs through you at the thought of those hands on your stomach, your hips, your ribs. 

You find the hairbrush you bought and walk over to the sink to examine your hair in the mirror, it’s soaking wet and clings to your back in heavy clumped ropes. You use your left hand to section off the front piece and bring the brush up to the ends of your hair. A sharp twinge runs through your right arm and all way down into your hip. You grit your teeth and start attacking the first knot with your brush even as your eyes water. You lean against the sink and try to pick the knot apart but every tug of the brush sends sharp waves of pain through your body.

You drop your arms down to your sides and squeeze your eyes shut as rage grips you; you feel completely helpless, pathetic, you can’t even brush your hair without crying. You glare at the girl in the mirror, hating her, how weak and fragile she is, a weeping orphan who just wants her mommy.

You knew that other kids thought it was weird, how close you and your mom were, but it wasn’t weird to you, because she wasn’t like other moms. She was young and cool and knew so much about things regular people couldn’t even conceive of. Every day with her was filled with magic, she made the world bright and beautiful and now it’s all gone, you’ll never have floating birthday cake candles or be held in loving arms ever again.

You’re no one now. The only thing that made you special was her, the magic she gave you every day, and now there’s nothing, only your aching bones and your pain and your fear, that you’re a dead woman walking, that every day for the rest of your life will be a white knuckled clench just to survive.

You stumble across the bathroom, the brush still clutched in your hand. When you reach the door you stop, one hand on the knob, wondering what Dean would do if you locked the door, laid down on the floor and didn’t get up, how long it would take, for him to get the door open, or if he’d leave you here, let you melt into a pool of your own grief until you drowned in it.

You exhale slowly and open the door. Dean’s right there in the hallway, leaning against the wall. He stares at you for a second and you wonder what he sees, if he thinks you look as broken and sad as you feel or if you’re just another girl to him, a name on a list, yet another person for him to save because he’s a hunter and it’s his job, to rescue girls like you. 

“Hey.” His eyes travel over your exposed stomach. “Are you ready?”

You swallow back the lump in your throat. “I can’t brush my hair.”

“Huh?”

“It’s all knotted but I can’t um, I can’t really lift my arm that high, I tried but I…” You dig your fingernails into your palm so you don’t start crying again. “I can’t do it.”

Dean gestures at your brush. “Here, gimme that.”

It’s your turn to stare. “What?”

“I can brush your hair.”

You feel a little hysterical suddenly, like you might start giggling. It just seems absurd, the idea of him, a hunter who routinely uses those hands to kill things, doing something like that for you. “You want to brush my hair?”

“I’m offering,” he clarifies. “You kinda seem worked up about it.”

It’s a little weird, too intimate, but then you remember lying in your underwear on that table bleeding out and terrified, and figure it can’t get much weirder than that. “Okay,” you say, and press the brush into his open hand. 

He leads you over to the sink and gently spins you around so you’re facing the mirror. You brace your hands against the edge of the sink, sucking in a breath as Dean closes the space behind you. When you look at your reflection he’s staring down at your head, forehead wrinkled like he’s thinking very hard, and you can’t help but take pity on him.

“Start at the ends and work your way up,” you advise.

He nods and you can’t help the shiver that runs through you when he slides the back of one hand against your neck to grab a section of your hair. You try to hold still as he begins to run the brush through the ends. It’s so quiet, just the two of you in the bathroom together and the sound of his breathing almost in your ear. You’re hyper aware of him, the warmth of his chest against your back, one of his hands braced against the crown of your head as the other drags the brush through your hair. It snags on a knot and you wince, tightening your fingers around the sink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s okay.” You press your lips together so you don’t make any pained sounds as he tugs at the knot, your eyes prickling with tears as your hair yanks against your scalp.

The tug of the brush stops. “Am I hurting you?”

“It’s okay,” you say again.

“That’s not what I asked.” He sounds almost stern, like the idea of him accidentally hurting you really bothers him.

“I just washed out half a can of hairspray and I haven’t brushed it in three days, it’s gonna hurt no matter what. It’s fine, let’s just get it over with.”

“Okay.” He resumes brushing but goes a lot slower, painstakingly working the brush through the knot until it comes apart.

He does your whole head section by section, deft fingers weaving through your hair until he can run the brush right through your damp waves without it catching on any knots.

“Alright.” Dean grins at you in the mirror, looking ridiculously proud of himself. “How’s that?”

Your light brown hair cascades down past your shoulders in glossy damp waves, the ends curling loosely against your bare back. With your clean moisturized skin and shiny hair you could almost be beautiful again, except that your eyes are still red and a little puffy from crying and your lips are pale and chapped.

“Not bad,” you say quietly. “Thank you.”

“Not bad?” he scoffs. “This is quality work right here, I clearly have an unmistakable talent.”

You can’t fight the laugh that bubbles up past your lips. “Yeah, you win, I guess you’re pretty good with your hands.”

You don’t mean it sexually but you hear the way it sounds as soon as the words are out of your mouth. You flick your eyes towards his in the mirror and there’s an expression on his face you don’t recognize, sly and amused.

“You’ve got no idea,” he says teasingly, pressing his chest right up against you as he sets the brush down on the shelf above the sink.

You clear your throat, flustered. “Are we going to do my stitches now?”

“Yeah.” He steps back and you hate it, the way your whole body goes cold in his absence. 

You turn around and lean back against the sink. Dean gets a washcloth and folds it over the edge of the sink before standing right in front of you, his eyes sliding past your cleavage down to your stomach. “I’m gonna take the bandage off and then wash it. You don’t want to actually wash over the stitches, just the skin around them.”

“Okay.” You try not to blush, aware of how breathless you sound. You don’t know why you feel so self conscious when he’s already seen you like this, like every cell in your body is vibrating.

His hands are warm against your skin as he gently peels off the edges of the medical tape and removes all the bloodstained gauze covering your stitches. You drop your head to look down at your side, the breath punching out of your chest in one sharp exhale as you take it in - a thick curved line that runs from your ribs all the way down your side and ends along the inside of your hip bone. Your fingers and toes go numb as your heart starts pounding; you look like something raw, mutilated, bloodstained thread holding your broken skin together and underneath that the things you can only imagine are there, blood and muscle, and you reach forward for Dean instinctually so you don’t keel over in repulsion.

“Whoa, whoa, hey.” He bends down over you, bracing his hands against the sink to box you in. “Don’t look at it. Just look at me, hey, Caylee, look at me.”

You drag your eyes away from your injury and force yourself to look up at him. He’s right there, and this close his eyes are a million different shades of green and you’re frozen, staring into the first face you saw when you woke up bleeding out, alone and so afraid but he was there, promising not to let you die.

“Breathe,” he tells you, voice soft and low and just hearing it calms you down a little, the same gentle, level tone he used on you that night. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

You inhale slowly through your nose and breathe out through your mouth a few times, a little dizzy. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” His mouth twists a little to the side, like he’s concerned about you. “I really do need to clean your stitches though.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“You sure? You’re not gonna pass out on me, are you?”

You blink a few times and shake your head a little, testing yourself, but the room holds and your hands are still clutching at his shirt. You force yourself to let go of him and lean back against the sink, wishing you could remember how to act like the girl you used to be, someone who used to flirt as easy as breathing, a young woman who would be delighted to find herself half naked alone in a room with a gorgeous man.

Dean runs the washcloth under warm water and pours a little liquid soap over it. You flinch a little when his free hand spreads across your stomach and he fixes his eyes on you. “Okay?”

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah.”

“Just keep breathing. It’s not gonna hurt.” He gives you a suave grin, faux bravado, like he’s being extra confident just for you, so you aren’t afraid. “Promise.”

“Okay.” You jump a little when the washcloth brushes your skin and the hand on your stomach slides down to your hip to anchor you. “Sorry, it’s just cold, I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“It’s just that I’ve never been hurt before,” you explain.

He raises an eyebrow at you. “Ever?”

“Not really, not like this anyway. And when I did get hurt my mom always… just made it go away.”

“Oh.” His eyes glaze over, like he’s thinking about something else, but then they clear as he looks right at you and just like that he’s back. “Well, I don’t have magic but it has been said I have magic fingers.”

He wiggles his eyebrows at you playfully and you can’t help but laugh. There’s something about it, his ability to find the light side of things even in the darkest moments, a quality you think speaks to some kind of inner persistence, a determination to soldier on, that makes you envy him.

You take a breath and try to remember how to do this, how easy it used to be, to flirt with conviction, because you used to be confident and beautiful and loved the way this felt, when you were just getting a read on someone, testing them out, letting yourself slip into the warm waters of attraction and seeing where it lead you and you were never afraid back then, because nothing bad had ever happened to you like that, and every man who gave you a slick smile and a sharp pick up line was fair game.

That isn’t your life though, not now, and you aren’t that girl anymore. But you try anyway, because you need to prove to yourself that some echo of her is still in you, so you lift your chin and smirk, just a little, cool and calm. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth. “You do that.”

The moment shifts and it’s like time just suspends - all you’re aware of is him, those eyes, the warmth of his body so close to yours, the weight of his hand on your hip. You feel so small like this, pinned against the sink, Dean’s body bent over yours, big hands spread over your sides. It should make you feel vulnerable, trapped, but for some reason it has the opposite effect - you feel safe, contained, protected.

He clears his throat. “I should uh, keep going.”

You nod, hypnotized by him, those broad shoulders, that jaw, the warm steady hands against your bare skin, head bowed as he washes you, and all you can do is stare.


	6. liquor

After you eat lunch with Sam and Dean you go back to your room to get your new phone charger so you can turn your phone back on. You kneel on the floor, briefly thinking about unpacking but then you realize you can’t, because unpacking would mean that you’ve accepted what happened and you’re just not ready to do that. It’s too much, the idea of sleeping in that bed, your clothes in those dresser drawers. You aren’t a hunter, you don’t belong here. 

You shouldn’t even be here. You should be a pile of ash on a basement floor halfway across the country but you’re still alive, because Sam and Dean saved you.

You close your eyes for a second and try not to think about it but that just makes it worse, you can’t make the mental image go away - your mom, screaming, all those innocent people who did nothing but follow Leader because they didn’t know any better -

You shudder and rub your eyes, you refuse to cry anymore, at least for the rest of the day.

You find the charger, rip open the plastic packaging and take it out. You curl the cord around you fingers and step out into the hallway, trailing your hand along the wall as you try to find your way back to one of the main rooms. You haven’t really had to pay attention before, this is the first time you’ve been alone in the bunker, and you make a wrong turn and go in almost a full circle before you realize your mistake and have to double back to find the way out of the little maze you’re in.

You eventually find the guys in the room with the long table and all the electronics, both of them sitting with open laptops in front of them. You lean against the wall to watch them, you can almost hear Natalie whispering sarcastically in your ear: _and here we can observe the hunters in their natural environment_. Sam’s leaned forward to read something on his screen, a pen stuck behind his ear. Dean’s leaned back in his chair, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingertips. It’s kind of hypnotizing, watching those long fingers curl around the neck of the bottle as he brings it to his mouth, throat exposed when his head tips back to take a sip before he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and sets the bottle down on the table.

“You need something?” he asks, without looking up from his laptop.

Your body goes hot with embarrassment, you feel unbelievably stupid. He’s a hunter, of course he already knew you were there, he probably sensed you the moment you walked into the room.

“Is there somewhere I can charge my phone?” You hold up the new charger.

“Yeah, here, I’ll show you.” Sam pushes away from the table to show you an open outlet set against the far wall.

“Thanks.” You get down on the floor to plug the charger into the outlet and connect your phone, relieved when after a moment the screen glows as the charging icon turns on.

You lean back against the wall, hands resting on your knees, and close your eyes. You’re exhausted but feel too wired to sleep so you listen to the soft murmur of Sam and Dean talking to each other and the tap of their keyboards. You’re too tired to wonder what they’re doing, even though you should care, you should be demanding to know what the plan is, what you’re doing here, how they’re going to kill the demon, but you’ve been awake since one in the morning and here on the floor, with barely enough energy to stay upright, you can’t bring yourself to question what’s going to happen next.

Because just thinking about it - what’s going to happen to you - is so terrifying it makes your whole body go cold. You know there’s really only two ways this will go: either the demon will kill you, or somehow Sam and Dean will kill it and you’ll be doomed to live the rest of your life like this, alone, without your mom.

As far as you’re concerned, you’re screwed either way.

Your phone buzzes next to you, it’s gotten enough of a charge for the home screen to turn on. You pick it up and examine the screen, frowning when you realize you don’t have a signal. You pick the phone up and hold it above your head but nothing changes, so you set it back down, drag yourself off the floor and shuffle over where Dean and Sam are hunched over their laptops.

“Hey, do you have WiFi?”

Dean gives you a weirdly sharp look. “What do you need WiFi for?”

“I can’t get a signal,” you explain.

Sam and Dean do that thing again, some kind of brother telepathy thing where they communicate just by looking at each other, and then Dean gets up and walks across the room to where your phone is and disconnects it from the charger.

“What are you doing?” You follow him back across the room, irritated at how slowly you have to walk so you don’t pull your side. “Dean come on, it barely has any charge, what’re you doing?”

“Why do you want WiFi?” He sounds so suspicious, like he thinks you’re a spy sent here to betray them and not a broken orphaned girl who can barely walk let alone actively do them any harm.

“What do you mean? Isn’t that kind of, just, you know, common courtesy to share WiFi?”

“Do you understand the situation you’re in right now?” Dean gives you a hard stare, like he thinks you’re being evasive. “You can’t call anyone. No texting, no Facebook, no Insta-whatever. You can’t do anything that might tip the demon off.”

“You don’t think I know that?” you retort. “And anyway, there’s literally one person left in my contacts who isn’t dead, and I don’t want her near any of this shit! So you don’t have to worry about me doing something stupid. My mom raised me to be careful, I know what I’m doing.”

He has the decency to look slightly ashamed, but only for a split second. “Good. Then you don’t really need this, do you?”

“Dean, wait,” you blurt out. “My music’s on there.”

You can tell that hits a nerve with him, because he closes his eyes for a second and exhales loudly. “You need the internet for that?”

“No,” you reply quickly. “It’s all downloaded already.”

He sighs. “Alright.” 

“Thanks.” You reach out to take your phone back but he holds it just out of your reach. 

“You swear you won’t try and contact anyone?”

“Yes, Jesus, I swear. God, you do know I get how bad this is, right? I’m not some random girl the demon chose, I grew up with this stuff. I know how to keep my mouth shut, I’ve been doing it my entire life.”

“Alright,” he says warily, and gives you back the phone. “Besides, we don’t have WiFi anyway.”

You stare at him, at this point you have no idea whether or not he’s fucking with you and you decide you’re too tired to care. 

You kneel down and plug your phone back into the charger. When you look up Dean’s standing in front of you, like he doesn’t trust you alone with your phone. You glance back over at Sam, who quickly looks down at the notebook spread out next to his laptop.

“What are you guys doing, anyway?” you ask Dean.

“Research for a case.” He walks back over to the table and picks up his beer, forcing you to pull yourself back up to stand so you can follow him across the room.

“What kind of case?” Your heart beats a little faster. “Are you - are you looking for the demon?”

“Not that kind of case,” Dean mutters, and drains his beer. “And no, not right this second anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, we have two kinds of jobs when it comes to hunting. The first kind is a one off, which is what we’re dealing with right now.”

“A one off?”

“Like a possession,” Sam chimes in. “Salt ‘n burns. Werewolves.”

“Vampire nests,” Dean adds. “Curses. Shapeshifters, you get the idea.”

You press your lips together and nod, you grew up with witches, you know the kinds of things that are out there, monsters who hide in the dark, but you don’t like thinking about it. “So what’s the other kind?”

Dean levels you with a look that makes you feel way too exposed. “You.”

“Oh,” you say softly, and reach for the back of a chair so you don’t loose your balance. It still makes your head spin to really think about it, that this is what your life is now - you’re a case, a girl marked by a demon, a damsel at the mercy of two hunters.

Dean steps a little closer to you. “You okay?”

You blink slowly and nod, letting your hand hover above the chair to prove you can hold your own weight. “Where’s my vodka?”

He gives you an amused look. “What?”

“My vodka. You’re both drinking and I have nothing to do, I want a drink.”

“Alright, it's in the kitchen,” he says easily, like you’re suddenly speaking his language. “C’mon, I could use a fresh beer anyway. Sam?”

“Sure, thanks.” Sam runs one hand through his hair and types something out on his laptop.

Dean walks you to the kitchen and plops you down into a chair before crossing over to the fridge. He gets out two bottles of beer, your fifth of Grey Goose and the bottle of orange juice you got as a mixer.

“You want a screwdriver?” he asks.

“Sure.” You watch him reach up to get a glass out of the cabinet, his tee shirt hiking up to reveal the smooth skin of his lower back.

“College girl,” he teases, pouring at least three shots into the glass and filling it to the top with juice.

You look pointedly at his beer and roll your eyes. “We can’t all be classy like you.” 

That makes him laugh. “I’m just giving you shit, ignore me.”

You shrug, unoffended, and take the glass carefully from him so you don’t spill. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He picks up both beers with one hand, fingers twisting around the necks. “You ready?”

You groan quietly but let him yank you out of the chair with his free hand. “For what?”

“Figured you’d rather be on a couch.”

“You would be correct.” You take a big sip and smack your lips. “Shit man.”

He grins, one eyebrow raised. “Good?”

“I think I’m already drunk.”

“I hope your tolerance isn’t actually that pathetic,” he jokes as he leads you out of the kitchen and back down the hallway.

“Of course not. Colleges girls know how to drink.”

“And god bless ‘em for it.”

“Oh yeah? You a big fan of us?” 

You’re kidding, sort of, but you can’t deny the comfort of the weight of his hand in yours, the warmth of his body next to you. You and Natalie would probably fawn all over him if you met him in a bar, flirt shamelessly for drinks and brush your hands all over those broad shoulders.

He looks sideways at you and your stomach floods with heat. “Big fan of women in general.”

You take another sip of your drink; you’d forgotten what this felt like, the confidence boost liquor gives you. “What about specifically?”

“Hmm?”

You can’t help it, you dart your tongue out to lick your lips, that familiar spinning feeling hitting you, the one you’re starting to associate with panic and loss but there’s power in it too, in having nothing left to lose. “What do you like? Specifically.”

His eyes flick from your lips to your cup and back up to your face. “Don’t drink so fast,” he mutters, and steers you into a room that must be some kind of den or a library judging by the decor.

He guides you towards a long leather couch and you collapse onto it, careful to land on your left side, holding your drink up so you don’t spill it. You try to pull Dean down with you but you’re so weak he doesn’t move at all so you pout up at him, your free hand resting on his forearm.

“Where are you going?” you ask, annoyed when it comes out sounding more insecure than coy, like you’re afraid to be alone.

“To give Sam his beer,” he replies evenly. 

You pull your hand away from him to cradle your drink. “Okay.”

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” he asks.

You blink up at him.”Sure,” you decide, because what the hell else are you supposed to do anyway?

“Alright.” He reaches down to ruffle your hair for a second and you hate how easy it is for his touch to make you melt, warmth running down your spine. “Hang tight for a minute.”

You manage to give him a cool smile like you couldn’t care less, like this, whatever this thing is between you, some unexpected connection you don’t quite understand but feel on a physical level, is just a game to you. “Okay.”

You curl up against the corner of the couch when he walks away, clutching your drink. You get warmer as you drink, heat sliding down your throat and into your stomach. You sigh and rest your head against the back of the couch, sinking into the cushions. You’re exhausted, every muscle in your body aching, and Dean was right, it feels so good to finally sit on a couch and relax, drink enough to forget about everything, just for a little bit.

He comes back a moment later with his beer in one hand and his laptop tucked under his arm. He opens it on the coffee table and sets his beer down on a coaster. He sits down next to you even though there’s still space on the far side of the couch and leans forward to type something into his internet browser. “Anything you want to watch?”

You shrug, hyper aware of the warmth of his body next to yours, and take another sip of your drink. “I don’t care.”

“We have Netflix.”

You almost say _good for you_ and take a big drink instead. He saved your life, he’s pretty much indulged your every whim so far, you don’t have the right to be mean right now. “Maybe not anything horror,” you mumble.

He turns sideways and gives you a look that makes you freeze, gentle and evaluating. “Okay.”

He picks an old sci-fi movie and leans back against the couch next to you, tilting his head back as he takes a swig of his beer.

You mimic him, coughing into your arm when the vodka burns your throat; you’re drinking fast and he made it plenty strong. He glances sideways at you and raises one eyebrow. “Okay there?”

You ignore the heat building behind your watering eyes. “I didn’t peg you for a nerd.”

“Excuse me, Sam’s the nerd here. I’m the cool brother,” he brags.

“Sure you are,” you snicker, secretly thrilled, that you’ve remembered how to banter, how to let go and play with another person.

He gestures roughly at the screen. “It’s a classic.”

“Yeah, okay,” you tease.

“Sorry.” He gives you a brilliant smile, like this is so much fun, snarking at each other. “We can’t all be bratty millennials with terrible taste.”

“Ouch.” You point your toe and lightly kick him in the thigh. “Way to hit me where it hurts.”

He reaches down lightning fast and wraps his fingers around your ankle. You freeze, unable to focus beyond the sensation of his skin against yours, the tightness of his grip, how solid and real it makes you feel to be touched by him. He tugs gently and you let the momentum spin you sideways so you’re facing him, your legs splayed across his lap. You’ve had enough to drink already that you go soft, slumping sideways against the couch. Dean stretches his left arm casually over the back of the couch and you slowly tilt your head until you can rest it on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move, looking at the movie as he lets out a sharp sigh and takes a long pull from his beer bottle. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest right against you, the solid muscles of his arm, you can almost pretend you’re on a date like this, _hashtag Netflix and chill_ , you think sarcastically to yourself, wishing desperately that you could text Natalie.

You shiver a little and take another sip of your drink. You can’t think about Natalie right now, you can’t think about how you lost her too even if she’s still out there and you have to just be grateful for that, that she’s still alive, safe, her whole beautiful life ahead of her.

You have to let her go.

“Okay?” Dean asks.

It still shocks you, that he can read you so well, even though you really shouldn’t be surprised. He’s a hunter, every one of them you’ve ever met has been hypervigilant, a master at reading body language, constantly observing every part of their environment. You nod into his chest, your eyes closing in delight when his hand cups over your shoulder.

“How’s your drink?” he asks.

“Good.” You lift your face up towards him. “Thank you.”

He tilts his head down a little and up close you can see a dusting of freckles over the bridge of his nose, lush curling eyelashes, perfect cheekbones. You’re breathless, all your trauma temporarily washed away by the vodka and everything warm and soft inside, your mind blissfully clear. You lose yourself in his face, marveling that someone who looks this beautiful can be so dangerous. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, and taps the neck of his beer bottle against your cup.

You both drink and you think _fuck it_ , and down the rest of your cocktail.

“Damn girl.” Dean gives you an impressed smile.

“And you thought college girls couldn’t drink.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a champion, I’m very impressed.” He smiles teasingly. “You are three drinks behind though.”

“So make me another one.”

He laughs. “You sure you need another one?”

“Please?” you wheedle. 

“One more,” he bargains.

You tip your chin up and give him a smile, a real smile, for maybe the first time since you met him, warm and loose and overflowing with gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone.” 

He puts his hands on your thighs and you melt back against the couch as he swings your legs off his. You pull your knees in towards your chest and rest your cheek against the back of the couch as he puts his beer down and stands up. He flicks the bottom of your foot playfully as he walks away and you giggle reflexively, like you’re just a dumb girl drunk on vodka and his attention and it feels so good, to let yourself pretend, just for a little bit. 

You know it’s a lie but right now you don’t care. You need this, you need to not feel the crushing weight of all those deaths, all that wasted life, burned to ashes right in front of your eyes. You’d do anything right now, to not feel that kind of pain.

So whatever, maybe you’re in denial. Right now you’re too drunk to care.

Dean comes back a few minutes later with a new drink for you; Sam trailing after him with a beer in one hand and his laptop balanced in the other. He sits down in an armchair and sets the laptop on his thighs, flashes you a quick smile and drops his head to focus on whatever he’s working on.

Dean hands you a new drink and sits back down next to you but this time he leaves a foot of space between you two; you glance at Sam and then sideways at Dean, who looks like he’s focusing very hard on the movie and think, _oh, okay._ It doesn’t hurt your feelings, if anything it makes you feel better, knowing you aren’t the only one aware of this _thing_ between you, the magnetic tug of your bodies pulling between you.

Besides, it doesn’t matter. You’re just pretending anyway, that you’re a regular girl watching a movie with a guy you like and his gentle, quieter brother. Like you’re three young beautiful people with normal lives kicking back with a drink and not two hunters and the daughter of a dead witch, screwed up and scarred.

You drink on autopilot, numb fingers curled around your cup. You can’t even pretend to follow the movie, everything on the screen looks soft and hazy, the words flying out of the actors’ mouth and floating away like butterflies before you can divine their meaning. You lean into the oblivion and let your head fall back, legs still curled against your chest, making your body small and harmless like you’re trying to disappear.

You jump when Dean touches your wrist, hissing at the sudden jolt that runs down your side as you flinch. He winces and runs his thumb over the back of your hand, like an apology. “I think you’re done,” he says gently.

You don’t know what he means but then he’s prying your half-full cup out of your hand and you’re so drunk your fingers just let him take it and your tongue sits heavy in your mouth, unable to argue. He leans down and sets it on the floor and then stretches out, leaning against the opposite end of the couch. 

You don’t really think about it, beyond your awareness of the impulse as it comes up - to close the space between you two, press your body up against his, get that feeling back, the one you had when his arm was around you and you felt small and safe and warm.

You don’t have enough energy to move that far though so you slump over instead and curl your body into the space between his legs and the back of the couch. Dean shifts a little and then he’s hovering over you, an amused expression on his face.

“You alright there?” he asks.

“I think I’m a little drunk maybe,” you mumble.

“Oh you think?” 

You blink up at him, watching his face blur in and out of focus. Your hand drifts up like you’re going to brush your fingers against his nose and he catches you by the wrist. The breath rushes out of you and his touch turns gentle, lightly pulling on your arm to slide you up so you’re lying next to him, your head flopping onto his chest.

Dean snorts and brushes your hair off of your face for you. “Comfy?”

“Mhmm.” You sigh and let your eyes shut, and listen to the reassuring steady beat of his heart against your ear. 

You drift, your body so warm and getting heavy like you’re going to fall asleep. You can feel a distant pulsing around your stitches but you’re drunk enough to tune it out, focusing on the rise and fall of Dean’s chest under you. His hand comes up to the back of your head and you sigh as he runs his fingers through your hair. The repetitive motion lulls you under and you relax against him, like you could fall asleep right here on the couch half on top of him. Your eyes shut and you just lie there, breathing, half-conscious, floating underwater and you never want to come back to the surface, you want to stay down here where everything is warm and heavy and so close to oblivion and right now, like a miracle, nothing hurts.

Dean sits up a little and you groan as you get pulled up his body. “Come on, time for bed,” he announces.

“No,” you moan, and try to burrow into his side but one of his arms catches your legs under the knees and you just kind of go limp, muscle memory almost at this point, letting Dean carry you all over the place like you’re a spoiled princess and he’s your devoted servant or something equally ridiculous.

“Yup, come on. I’m not a mattress.” Dean sounds more amused than annoyed but it snaps you into sobriety for a second, the realization that you’ve been lying all over a guy you barely know, a guy that’s definitely a little too old for you, a guy who could snap your neck without breaking a sweat.

“Sorry,” you mumble, automatically reaching up to loop your arms around his neck as he stands up in one smooth motion.

“I just figured you’d rather sleep on an actual bed,” he replies.

“Night,” you say to Sam over Dean’s shoulder, and he gives you a smile and holds one hand up as Dean carries you away.

You flop your cheek down onto his shoulder and give in, just enjoy the moment, how good it feels to have someone hold you and assert a little control over the mess that is now your life. It occurs to you that you’re most like developing some kind of emotional attachment to the guy but that’s too much for you to deal with right now so you tell the thought to go away. You’re in a unique situation, boundaries have already been crossed all over the place, and besides, he saved your life.

You’d be dead without him.

Like all those other people.

You don’t pay attention to how he gets to your room, the bunker simply a blurred maze of painted tiles and exposed brick. He kicks the door open and walks across the threshold with you in his arms like a drunk demented bride, turns on a lamp and carries you across the room to the bed. You stretch out on your back, your body loose and sinewy, watching through slitted eyes as he perches on the edge of the bed.

“You gonna be alright?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

He rolls his eyes a little. “You need anything before I go?”

You blink, your body feeling very heavy. “Will you take off my shorts for me?”

You hear a muffled snorting noise and then you realize it’s because Dean is laughing into his fist. “You serious?”

“Please? I don’t wanna.”

“Lazy,” he admonishes teasingly.

“I can’t move, I’m too drunk,” you moan. “Do it for me, it’s too hard.”

“Okay, I’m just gonna say it, I was dead on about the bratty thing.”

When you glance up at him through your eyelashes though he’s smiling and some old thrill shoots through you, when you realize this is just another game and he’s playing too.

“Dean,” you beg, pouting your lips a little.

He stretches out on his side and shakes his head playfully. “You are _wasted_ right now.”

“De _annnn._ ”

“Say please.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes you shiver, some gravely undertone.

You blink at him, slow and obvious, your cheeks hot. “Please.”

He smirks, just a little. “Okay.”

He’s hovering over you in two seconds flat, one hand braced against your hip at the other goes to the button on your fly. The breath rushes out of you and it’s like waking up all over again, staring up into gentle green eyes, strong hands holding you down. It’s like everything, everything you ever were before that night goes away, all you are is a girl with a body that’s been split apart and put back together, staring into Dean Winchester’s eyes wondering why he saved her.

“Hey.” It shocks you back to reality, the timbre of his voice. “Okay?”

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah.”

He undoes your button one handed and drags down the zipper. “Lift,” he instructs, and you obediently push your hips into the air so he can roll your shorts down your thighs.

You kick them off and flop over onto your left side, curling your legs into yourself. Your eyes drift shut as your head sink into a pillow. “Thanks,” you sigh.

“Sure. Okay, you good now?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay,” he chuckles, and rests his hand on the top of your head, just for a second, before pulling it away. “Goodnight.”

You manage to give him a sleepy smile. “Night.”

You catch a flash of white teeth as he grins, the mattress shifting as he hops off. You start to close your eyes, thinking maybe this bed isn’t your bed but it still feels pretty good right now. And then Dean turns the lamp off with a _click_ and you’re alone in the dark and you can’t move and your mother is screaming for you and you’re so afraid you think your heart will burst and you open your mouth to cry but nothing comes out and you gasp and gasp, your lungs seizing up -

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Dean rushes back over to you. “What, what? What happened?”

The mattress dips as he climbs onto the bed and you reach frantically for him, hands searching out until you find his arms and you cling to them in the dark like you’re drowning and his body is a liferaft. Big hands cup over your shoulders and then you’re being held up in front of him, like he’s inspecting you for injuries.

“What, what?” he asks again. “What happened?”

“Don’t go,” you beg, your chest heaving as you suck in air. “Please, please, please don’t, please don’t go, please” -

“Hey, hey, okay, it’s okay, I’m right here.” He tightens his grip on you a little. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

Your head flops forward and you press your face into the pillow. “They’re dead,” you moan. “Oh god, they’re all dead, oh my _god_.”

Dean’s hands slide out from under your shoulders and you roll over onto your stomach, sick and dizzy. You feel him stretch out next to you and then there’s a hesitant hand at your shoulder and you flinch without meaning to. The hand instantly disappears and you panic, blindly reaching out until you find his wrist and dig your fingers into it.

“Okay, okay,” he says, quiet and calm, like he knows what to do and it’s enough to make you go still, fingers wrapped around his forearm.

You whimper as he unfurls your grip on him but then he flips over on his back next to you and finds your hand again. His fingers curl around yours and you shudder as he pulls your linked hands to his chest. You bite back a sob and shift your head to the side until you can rest it on his shoulder.

“They’re all dead,” you whisper.

His grip on your hand tightens. “I know.”

You splay your free hand over your eyes. “I’d never even seen a dead body before.”

He sighs as his thumb runs over your knuckles but he doesn’t respond and you’re grateful for that, because there’s nothing he could say right now that wouldn’t sound like an empty platitude. You lie there, too exhausted and heavy to move, breathing against Dean’s shirt, his thumb tracing circles over the back of your hand.

“Dean?” you whisper eventually.

“Hmm?”

“Will you” - your voice cracks - “will you stay until I fall asleep?”

You should feel humiliated, asking him to do something like that for you, but you’re desperate and drowning and you lost your dignity along with your old life that night in that motel room. You have nothing to lose, no reason to try to summon up false bravado when he already knows how weak you are. 

“Sure,” he says, so low it’s barely audible.

You slide a little closer to him and curl your fingers into the fabric of his tee shirt. You shudder as you exhale, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes. “Thank you.”

He taps his thumb reassuringly against your hand. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m a mess.”

His shoulder slides up a little as he shrugs. “You’re grieving.”

You turn into him and yawn against his chest. “I’m so tired.”

“So go to sleep.”

You think about earlier today, the things you saw every time you closed your eyes, bodies burning, and shiver against him. “I don’t wanna… I don’t wanna… see them.”

It sounds nonsensical but somehow he must divine your meaning because he squeezes your hand. “Hey, it’s alright. Nothing can hurt you here. You’re safe.” 

You can’t help it, the pull to shut your eyes and drift off is too strong, you’re drunk and exhausted and you can’t fight your body anymore. “Okay.”

“Go to sleep.” So soft you barely hear it, or maybe you’re already dreaming. “I’m here.”


	7. blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t read the tags for this fic yet you might want to do that before starting this chapter - angst ahead, readers.

_You’re in the backseat of Dean’s car and music is blasting through the speakers and your mother is sitting next to you, and she’s smiling, and the sky outside is a perfect cloudless blue and you’re laughing and you’re so happy you could burst like a balloon, and then the sky shifts and all of a sudden it’s dark outside and fire springs up all around you, the car is somehow on fire and the doors are locked and your seat belt won’t unbuckle and someone is screaming, everyone is screaming and you can’t see your mother anymore, all you see is smoke but you can hear her screaming your name and you’re crying and she’s screaming Caylee, Caylee, Caylee_ -

“Caylee, c’mon, wake up, Caylee!”

The hand on your shoulder is heavy like Leader’s was when the demon held you down by the neck and swung the knife and you punch out on instinct, shrieking at the top of your lungs, flooded with the insane fear that it’s here, right in this room, about to kill you. Your hand connects to something with a _crack_ and you scramble across the bed as fast as you can and leap off the edge and then your right side tears apart. You go down hard and crumple over on the floor, moaning as you crawl towards the corner and press your back up against the wall, disoriented and terrified.

The light flickers on and you catch a glimpse of Sam on the other side of the bed, hands clamped over his nose as blood trickles through his fingers before you cover your face with your hands to protect against the light as your eyes burn.

“What the hell is going on in here?”

You peek through your fingers and Dean is hovering in the doorway, looking bewildered.

“She was having a nightmare,” Sam says in a pinched voice. “I woke her up and she just - it’s my fault, she was still out of it. I should’ve given her more space.”

“Amature,” Dean shakes his head at him. “Go clean up, I’ll deal with this.”

You try to breathe through the tightness in your chest as you listen to Sam walk out of the room. The terror from your dream hasn’t dissipated yet and your side is throbbing and all you see when you close your eyes is fire. You bend your legs and wrap your arms around your shins, resting your head down against your knees. You hear Dean pad across the floor and you tighten up in anticipation, your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and there are flames dancing behind your closed eyelids and you think if he touches you right now you might really freak out.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet and some part of you relaxes a little because you’ve been with him long enough that the sound of his voice is now familiar, instantly recognizable, safe.

“Sam said you had a nightmare,” he continues, and the safe feeling evaporates. “You okay?”

Your tongue is stuck behind your teeth, your throat tightening at the mention of your dream as it comes back in an icy rush that makes you tremble. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Totally calm, like you aren’t curled up against the wall shaking like a scared little kid. “Can you look at me?”

You shake your head frantically, trying not to cry as you breathe shallowly through the sharp pain in your side. You reach down to press one hand against it and it comes away wet. You recoil, head snapping up as you stare down in horror at your blood streaked palm.

“Damn, you must have busted your stitches,” Dean says.

Your breath comes in short sharp gasps as you stare down at your hand. Everything feels jumbled up in your head: your mom, the fire, the knife, your bleeding stitches, like your nightmare followed you into consciousness. He takes advantage of your disorientation and scoots forward, trapping you between his legs like you’re a helpless kitten.

“Arms up,” he orders, and you comply obediently, lost except for the sound of his voice and you know if you can just do what he tells you somehow it’ll be okay, because he always seems to know what to do.

You stretch your arms up and Dean peels your shirt up by the hem and tugs it over your head. When you look down blood is seeping through your bandage and your head spins, arms dropping down by your sides as you suck in a panicked breath, _shit shit shit_ -

“Hey, it’s okay, I just gotta stitch ‘em back up, it’s gonna be fine. Here, put your arms around my neck, I’ve got a first aid kit in my room.”

You start to cry. “But I’ll get blood on you.”

“You think I care about a little blood?” he scoffs. “Besides, I’ve seen way scarier things than that, don’t worry about it. C’mon, let’s get it over with.”

“I don’t want to,” you protest weepily, because you’re exhausted and you’re so sick of hurting, bleeding, you just want it to stop, you want this to end, you want your old life back. “It’s gonna hurt.”

“Yeah, it will,” he says. “But just for a little bit.”

You moan and drop your head to his shoulder. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I know.” He scoops you into his lap and you’re too tired to fight him so you let him pick you up and carry you out of the room.

He walks across the hall with you in his arms and pushes open a door with his foot to take you into his room. He rushes over to a bed to set you down on the edge before walking over to a nightstand. He pulls a fifth of Jack Daniels out of a drawer and brings it back over to you.

“Drink,” he instructs.

You wrinkle your nose at the bottle, you’ve never liked whiskey. “Why?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You really wanna get stitched up stone cold sober?”

Your stomach drops and you reach for the bottle with numb fingers. You take a long pull and swallow, cough into your elbow and take one more swig before handing it back. He sets it down on the floor and walks around to a dresser, digging through a drawer until he finds a red and white plastic box. He tosses it onto the bed next to you and you think about it, Dean dragging a needle through your skin and this time you won’t be drugged out and barely conscious, you’ll feel all of it, just like you did when the demon sliced your skin apart.

You don’t realize that you’re hyperventilating until Dean rushes back over to you, crouching down on the floor between your legs. “Whoa, whoa, hey, breathe, you’re okay.”

You try to suck in a breath but your chest is too tight and everything spins, all you can do is sit there, staring down at him, frozen and suffocating.

“Breathe,” he urges. “C’mon, breathe.”

“I can’t,” you wheeze.

He winces a little, reaching for you. “Okay, here, put your head down.”

You think of the hand on your neck and you flinch, dropping your chin to your chest as you bring your arms up to fold them protectively over the back of your head.

“Don’t,” you plead, and start to shake. “Don’t, I can’t, please, don’t.”

“Hey, okay, it’s okay,” he placates. “I won’t, you’re okay.”

“I tried,” you gasp out. “I tried to, to get up, but she… she had me tied to a chair.”

“I know,” he says gently, because of course he knows that, he found you.

“I tried,” you say again, and start to sob but you can’t breathe so all your words come out between strangled gasps. “I tried - to get out of the ropes - I swear! I tried so hard - I don’t know any magic - I couldn’t figure out how to - get my hands free and I couldn’t - oh god I couldn’t move and, and - she was screaming, they were all just - Dean, they were _screaming,_ \- I couldn’t do anything but I was trying and then, and then Leader put her hand on my neck but she wasn’t Leader anymore…”

You trail off as you curl over, mouth open wide in an inaudible cry, tears pouring down your face as you gasp and shake.

“Okay, enough,” he says, firm enough that it makes you shiver. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”

You lift your head a little, blinking tears out of your eyes. “What?”

“C’mon, I can’t stitch you up with you shakin’ like this.”

“What are you going to do?” you whimper.

“Nothing, just trust me.” He reaches up very slowly, eyes locked on yours, and you force yourself not to pull back.

His hands come to your wrists and he slowly wraps his fingers around them. “Let go,” he coaxes, and pulls your hands away from your head.

He guides your trembling arms out until your hands are resting on his shoulders, you can feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric of his tee shirt.

“Good girl,” he says, soft and low. “Just keep looking at me. We’re gonna count until you calm down, okay?”

“Huh?” you pant out, blinking rapidly.

“Gotta get you breathing again,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Repeat after me, that’s all you gotta do. One.”

“One,” you grit out, curling your fingers into the fabric of his tee shirt.

“Good,” he says quietly, so calm, like everything is going to be okay. “Two.”

“Two,” you sniff.

“Three.”

“Th-three.”

“Four.”

“Four.”

“There you go. Five.”

You exhale with a shudder. “Five.”

“Six.”

“Dean?”

“Six,” he repeats.

“Six.”

“Good. Let’s go to ten, okay?”

Your breath catches. “Okay.”

“Seven.”

“Seven.”

“Eight.”

You blink out a stray tear and it slides down the side of your face. “Eight.”

He reaches up and you hold very still as he wipes the tear away. “Nine.”

You push your cheek into his palm. “Nine.”

“Ten.”

“Ten.”

“Hey, alright, you did it. Feel any better?”

You nod against his hand, feeling a little dazed, lightheaded but at least it doesn’t hurt to inhale anymore. “Dean?”

“What? Here, lie down.” He pops up from his crouch and slides a towel under you before helping you lean back until you’re lying all the way down on his bed.

You look up at the ceiling, something thick in the back of your throat. “Why are you doing this?”

He takes off his watch and sets it down on the nightstand. “Doing what?”

You watch him sit down on the edge of the bed, trying not to shiver when he grabs the first aid kit. “Taking care of me.”

He pops open the lid, head tilted to the side. “Let’s just say I have a vested interest in keeping you alive.”

You stare at him. “What does that mean?”

He blinks. “I should go wash my hands. Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

You stare up at the ceiling, realizing that the whiskey is kicking in as you melt back against the mattress. You can distantly hear the sound of running water and you breathe shallowly, you feel stupid for being so afraid when you’ve already been stitched up before, it can’t be as bad the second time around and at least you understand what’s happening this time. But all you can think about is that it’s going to hurt and you’re probably going to cry and embarrass yourself in front of Dean even more than you have already.

“Alright, you ready to get this over with?” Dean sits on the edge of the bed and you jerk a little, you didn’t hear him come back.

“Not like I really have a choice,” you mumble, folding your arms across your chest.

“I’ll try to be quick.” His fingers brush your side and you flinch; his hand presses down gently to hold you still as he looks at you. “I’m just taking the bandage off, okay?”

“Okay.” You press your lips together as he peels off all the medical tape and bloody gauze and drops it into an open trash bag on the floor.

You crane your head instinctively to look down at your side and then Dean’s hand is flat against your forehead, his arm blocking your view. “Don’t look,” he says sternly.

You drop your head back against a pillow. “Is it bad?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

His hand comes back to your head, featherlight as he smooths your hair back. “You know you can trust me right?”

You feel like you could almost go back to sleep like this, whiskey flowing through your veins and his fingers stroking through your hair. “My mom told me to never trust anyone.”

He snorts. “Smart woman.”

“Is it going to hurt?” you whisper.

He glances down at your side. “You didn’t pop all of them. It’s not gonna be a picnic but it could be worse.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

He shrugs. “Just being honest.”

You exhale harshly and tighten the cross of your arms. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Alright. Don’t watch, okay? Trust me, you don’t want to.”

You turn your head and train your eyes on the ceiling again. “Okay.”

“Good.” His hands disappear from your body and you feel their absence almost like a physical ache. “I’m gonna clean around it and then put the new stitches in. Try to stay still, if you start feeling dizzy or sick tell me and we’ll take a break.”

You try to keep your breathing steady even as you feel your heart start to race. “You sound like the guy who tattooed me.”

“This is cold,” he warns you, and then he’s wiping something around your skin. “You said you were sixteen, right?”

“Yeah. My mom took me… I thought it was so cool, back then. Getting a _neck_ tattoo, Jesus. I didn’t… really get it. I thought she was just like, such a cool mom, I didn’t even realize… she’s the one who showed it to me, she just said it was for protection. We actually um, got them together, like mother daughter bonding. I didn’t know what exactly it was supposed to protect me from, then. But, I trusted her. I always trusted her. And look where that got me.”

“I’m gonna start now,” he announces. “Keep talking, it’ll help distract you.”

There’s a sharp pinch at your side and you inhale quickly, your eyes watering. “I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Got any more tattoos?” he asks.

“You know I don’t.”

“You could have one somewhere more private.” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the only part of your naked body he hasn’t seen is what was hidden under that little thong you tossed in the Target bathroom.

You wince at a sudden tugging sensation. “Gross dude.”

“I don’t know,” he says playfully. “Could be hot.”

You laugh weakly. “You into that?”

“Tattoos?”

You shut your eyes and concentrate on holding still as a flash of pain hits you. “Mhmm.”

“Sure. I’ve got one too.”

“You do?”

“Yep.”

You breathe slowly, trying to focus on anything but the burn in your side. “What of?”

He makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. “Same as yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, Sam and I both have ‘em.”

“You guys have anti-possession tattoos?”

“Kinda helps in our line of work.”

“I guess… that makes sense.” The throb down your side intensifies and you gasp a little, trying to figure out how to breathe through it.

“Hey, hey, how’re we doing?” he asks immediately. “You breathing?”

“Uh huh,” you pant, tears pooling behind your closed eyelids.

“You need a break?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you choke out but then you blink and hot tears slide down your cheeks.

“Okay yeah, I’m stopping,” he announces.

“No don’t, I’m okay,” you argue, blinking rapidly to clear your eyes. “Just get it over with.”

There’s something under your eyes suddenly, a tissue or something, all your tears being wiped away as Dean hovers over you. “I’m not gonna judge you if you need to take a breather,” he tells you. “I’m trying to fix you, not torture you.”

You stare up at him, his beautiful tear blurred face. “I don’t think you can fix me.”

He gives you a ghost of a smirk and wipes your cheeks. “I dunno, I’m pretty good at this.”

Your bottom lip begins to tremble. “I don’t think anyone can fix me.”

His eyes go dark, like he knows you aren’t talking about your body anymore. “Look, I’m not gonna lie to you and tell you everything’s gonna be peachy. But you survived, that means you’re strong.”

“I don’t feel very strong right now,” you admit.

He just nods and tosses whatever he was using to wipe your face. “Yeah, well, you’ve had a hell of a weekend.”

It stuns you all over again, that it’s only been one weekend since your life fell apart. You’ve lost all sense of time at this point, the last few days a blur of drugged out car rides and tears and bad dreams, Sam’s soft voice and Dean carrying you around.

“You ready?” he asks.

You tap your left thumb against each finger: _I. Am. So. Brave_. “Yeah.”

You stare up at the ceiling as he does the rest of your stitches, teeth clenched as tears occasionally slide down your face. To your relief Dean doesn’t call you out on it, he just politely ignores them as they fall and keeps going, humming under his breath until he’s finished. He bandages you up and climbs off the bed, knots off the trash bag and puts the first aid kit away before coming back to you.

“Here, let me help you sit up.” Dean slides one hand under the small of your back and the other under your head and pushes you up so he can pull the towel out from under you.

You curl over onto your left side, shivering. You’re only wearing a bralette and underwear and your side aches and you’re so tired, you hurt everywhere and the whiskey is making the walls spin, or maybe it’s just the pain, and you get a sudden memory of Sam, saying something about how much blood you lost, and a sour taste rises up the back of your throat.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand, warm on your shoulder, and it makes you want to cry, it makes you want to press your face into the mattress and scream until he holds you because he sewed your skin back together but you still feel like you’re falling apart.

All those people, dead, right in front of you, and you couldn't do anything but scream.

“Hey,” he says again, using that voice that makes something deep inside of you go completely still, like you’re paralyzed. “Can you look at me for a second?”

You manage to roll back towards him enough to turn your head and you must look bad because he immediately frowns and says, “I’m getting you water.”

You’re too tired to do anything but nod weakly and wait for him to fill up a cup and bring it back to you. He helps you tilt your head up to drink and you’re thirstier than you thought you were because you gulp it all down before collapsing back onto your side.

“Hey.” His hand returns to your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Sorry, yeah,” you mutter, exhausted and freezing and your side throbbing like hell. “Thanks.”

“You sure? You need anything else?”

You groan a little and close your eyes. “I just need to lay here for a little while.”

“Okay, that’s cool.” You hear him moving around his room, putting things away, drawers opening and shutting. “Hey, do you care if I turn the light out?”

You realize that he was probably sleeping before you and Sam woke him up and you feel a little guilty about it but mostly you just feel gutted out, empty. “I don’t care.”

It flares out behind your eyelids and you blink your eyes open in the dark. Dean crosses around to the other side of the bed, peels his shirt up and off and starts to pull the blanket back.

“You cold?” he asks.

“Uh huh,” you mumble.

“Here, get under.” He helps you slide under the blanket and pulls it up over your shoulders.

You burrow under it, pulling your legs into your chest as you shiver. Dean stretches out on his back next to you, leaving a good six inches of space between your bodies. You rub your eyes, you’re bone-tired and you hurt and you’re so fucking sad you can hardly bear it.

“Dean,” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

“What did Sam mean before? When he said you guys could understand what I was going through.”

Dean sighs heavily and doesn’t look at you. “You aren’t the only one around here who lost people like that.”

You turn your head to stare at him. “Like what?”

“You know. Fire. Demon. The whole enchilada.”

You can barely breathe. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” He pops the _p_ and reaches over the side of the bed to retrieve his whiskey.

“Who?” you whisper. 

He unscrews the cap and takes a long pull. “People.”

“Like your family?” you ask tentatively.

He nods and takes another pull from the bottle, his eyes a mystery to you in the dark. “It was a long time ago.”

You gape at him. “Is that supposed to make it better?”

He glances sideways at you and holds out the whiskey. “You want some?”

“I - are you serious right now?”

He dangles the bottle. “This is a limited time offer here.”

You snatch the bottle from him, take a big sip and cough into your elbow when you swallow. “How can you just like… act like it’s normal?”

He takes the bottle back. “Told you, it was a long time ago.”

Your eyes water but you don’t know if it’s from the alcohol or if you’re crying again. “It’s still sad.”

He peers at you, bottle held halfway to his mouth. “You crying again?”

“No,” you lie, wiping your face with the edge of the pillowcase. 

“Mhmm. Very convincing.”

“Sorry, maybe I’m just emotional because instead of walking at my college graduation I was tied to a chair in a basement for hours listening to my mother scream for me and then watched her and everyone else I grew up burn to death while a demon almost killed me, and I’ve lost my entire freaking life, and oh yeah, then I went on a road trip with two guys I didn’t know, who just happen to be hunters, who, no offense, kinda have a rep for hating witches, and I might not be a full fledged member of the tribe but I’m kind of one by default, which, you know, makes me slightly concerned about this entire living situation but to be fair you guys have been like, weirdly hospitable given everything I’ve ever been told about hunters. So, anyway, my entire life is falling apart and I’m freaking the fuck out. Happy?”

He snorts. “You could’ve just told me you got trust issues.”

You cover your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“How to do what?”

Your bottom lip trembles. “It’s always just been me and my mom. I don’t... I don’t know if I” -

“Hey, hey.” His fingers brush your wrist and his touch is such a physical relief that you drop your hands away from your face and look at him with wet eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you confess.

He gives you a sharp look. “You got through today, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“So you get up in the morning and do it again. And then the next day, and the next day.” 

“Easy as that?”

“That ain’t the point,” he says. “You do it even if it’s hard. You do it even when you think you can’t.”

You try to really imagine it, getting up every morning knowing you’ll never talk to your mom again, that you’ll never see her or touch her or smell the perfume on her skin. It makes you feel like all the air has gone out of the room, like your body is splitting apart, because some part of you still refuses to believe that this is real, that this isn’t an elaborate joke, because she can’t be gone, this can’t be your life, it can’t be -

“Whoa, whoa. Hey.” The warm palm of a hand pressing flat against your forehead brings you back to your body. “Breathe. Just breathe.”

You gasp greedily for air, reaching up to clutch his forearm so he doesn’t even think about taking his hand away. “Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I said breathe, not apologize.”

You dig your fingers into his arm and focus on that, the one thing that feels real to you right now: the heat of his skin, the firm lines of muscle and bone, the faint rush of his pulse. You're lying half naked in a hunter’s bed in the dark and his hand is on your head and it suddenly seems so completely absurd, all of it, that you choke and gasp with laughter even as you cry a little.

He gives you a bewildered look. “What?”

You slide your fingers over a tendon in his wrist. “Do you ever think about how crazy your life is? Like, do you ever have moments where you’re like, well I guess this week I’m gonna share a bed with a communications major with emotional issues and a gross injury while I figure out how to kill the demon who murdered her mother, how is this even my life?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’ve had way worse weeks than that, trust me.”

“That’s not terribly comforting.”

“Look, If this is some weird guilt thing, just say thank you and stop worrying. You’re not imposing or anything if that’s what’s got you all twisted up.”

You blink and rub your eyes with your fingers. “Really?

He tilts his head at you. “Course not. Saving people? That’s our job.”

Right. You’re a job. Just a name on a list to him, a girl he probably won’t even remember later, when this is all over.

“And I don’t think you have emotional issues,” he adds.

You stare at him, a little stunned. “You don’t?”

“Nah. You’re just sad,” he says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m really sad.”

His thumb runs over your hairline. “I know you are.”

You close your eyes and focus on that, the sweep of his thumb back and forth, the weight of his palm against the crown of your head. You feel so heavy, like you’re sinking into the mattress, exhausted in every sense, physically burned out in a way you never felt even when you were pulling all nighters during finals week, like you could sleep for the rest of your life and it wouldn’t be enough rest.

“You wanna go back to bed?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t wanna move,” you breathe out, lulled by his voice and the rhythm of his fingers sliding over your forehead. “Can I sleep here with you?”

You’re too fucked up right now to care that you’re probably being intrusive, acting like a clingy annoying girl who’s afraid to be alone, but he just nods and tangles a few of his fingers in your hair.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He gives you a tight smile and stretches out a little, still too far away for your bodies to touch. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean it though.” You’re drifting, the words coming out a little funny. “Thanks. For being nice and, you know. Not letting me bleed to death.”

He snorts. “My pleasure.”

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

You think about it, asking him what’s going on with the demon, what the plan is, fill you in on how he and Sam are going to kill it, and then you decide that right now maybe it’s better not to know. You’ve had enough emotional breakdowns in the past twenty-four hours that maybe the best thing for you right now is to go to sleep, escape into the dark depths of unconsciousness and hope you don’t have another dream like that again.

And Dean’s here. You know nothing bad can happen to you with him six inches away.

“Hey,” he says softly. “What?”

You use your grip on his arm to get some leverage to slide your body close enough to his that you can brush the top of your feet against his legs and sigh at the contact. “Never mind.”


	8. pills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for lovely comments on the past few chapters, they’re so motivating! Trigger warning for prescription drug abuse in this chapter.

You wake up in Dean Winchester’s bed, alone. 

You groan quietly and look around but the room is empty, the light is still off and you’re freezing under the blanket. You have absolutely no idea what time it is or how long you’ve been sleeping for. You crawl out of bed and cross your arms across your chest, shivering. You tiptoe across his bedroom and dash across the hall, open the door to your room and slip inside, gently shutting the door behind you.

You feel like hell; your side hurts, your eyes ache and there’s a horrible darkness like a black hole pressing on your chest, threatening to suffocate you.

The first thing you do is peel off your underwear and put on a clean pair, take the tags off the grey shorts and black hoodie and pull them on, determinedly not looking down at your fresh bandage. You grab your black bag and take out the bottle of painkillers, shake one into your palm and swallow it dry. You open a package of hair ties and pull your hair back in a messy knot on the top of your head, wondering where the guys are and what you’re supposed to be doing right now. You don’t know what to do with the total lack of structure, being locked up with an injury and a target in your back, and you have this terrible sense of never ending time unspooling in front of you, all of it dark and meaningless.

To your surprise you find your phone and charger neatly lined up on the nightstand, Sam or Dean must have brought them in here while you were sleeping in Dean’s bed.

You feel oddly touched, and then completely freaked out by your reaction. It’s not like they’re being nice to you because they’re your friends, it’s not like you’re special. You know the deal - they’ll hunt the demon, kill it, and then drop you off at the nearest bus station. They may be keeping you alive right now but only because it’s their job. They don’t care about you, you don’t matter to them. You’re just a girl, a stupid naive girl who walked right into a demon’s trap and got a coven full of people killed.

You’re no one. Nothing. Just another jobless college graduate, a girl no one will even remember after a few months.

You’re practically a ghost.

A wave of exhaustion hits you and you sink to your knees in front of the Target bags and dig around until you find your new earbuds and rip open the plastic packaging. You plug them into your phone and crawl into bed, insert the earbuds and open your music app. You select a playlist you made for meditation and hit play, not prepared for the way the familiar opening cords make you tear up.

You curl over onto your left side and pull the covers all the way up over your head, and shut your eyes.

*

You’re not asleep exactly but you’re drifting, body heavy and warm from the pill, your headphones blocking you from any ambient noise, when the covers get pulled down your body. You flinch and yank out your earbuds; Sam is standing at the foot of the bed with the edge of the blanket in his hands, a bruise splashed over the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” he says gently. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You blink at him, feeling very small curled up in the middle of the mattress with him towering at the foot of the bed like that. “What’s going on?”

“Breakfast,” he announces.

You shiver, rubbing your bare feet together. “I’m not hungry.”

“We made coffee.”

You sigh and turn your music off, feeling like a sucker but your caffeine addiction wins out. They’re hunters, they have to be the same way. “Okay.”

He waits patiently while you slowly crawl out of bed and set your phone down on the nightstand. Your legs feel a little rubbery and your mouth is annoyingly dry, you lean sideways against the wall for a second, your head feeling too heavy for your neck.

“Hey.” Sam is suddenly leaning over you. “You okay?”

You blink up at him, staring at his bruise. “Sorry,” you rasp. “About last night.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

You sigh, you’re feeling melancholy and half-asleep, the idea of having to navigate through the maze of the bunker to the kitchen exhausting. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it, I get it. Um, are you sure you’re okay? Do you need help walking?”

You wonder if you’ll ever have to walk all on your own again, when you’re stuck down here with the two of them, both of whom are almost bizarrely eager to carry you around, like this is the least they can do, like they feel bad for you. So it’s just too easy, to nod and let Sam take you gently by the arm so you can lean against him. You tilt your head against his side and walk out of the room with him, let yourself be guided down the winding hallways to the kitchen.

Dean is already here, sitting at the long table drinking coffee and reading something on his laptop. “Morning,” he says casually, without looking up.

“Hey.” You feel awkward as you sit down across from him; it feels like having a secret, you and Dean last night: his hands on your wrists, your shoulders, your face, keeping you from falling apart.

Something dings and Dean jumps up to pull slices of toast out of the toaster. Sam pours two mugs of coffee and brings one over to you, walks over to the fridge and brings back a container of coffee creamer.

“Thanks,” you mumble, pour some cream into your mug and swirl it around, watching that pale ribbon slowly mix into the coffee.

“Can I make you something to eat?” Sam offers. “I was gonna make eggs but we’ve got oatmeal, bacon, toast…”

“I’m really not hungry.” You sip your coffee, the warmth sliding down your throat.

Sam frowns, like he’s worried about you, which you find both ridiculous and very sweet. “You should eat something.”

You shake your head and focus on the coffee, the way the mug warms your palms, how you can almost feel all your sleepy synapses beginning to fire, caffeine filtering into your system. You feel spaced out, probably from the pill you took, hollow inside, like you’re just a bleeding broken shell of the person you used to be.

Sam sighs and walks over to the fridge, pulls out a carton of eggs and carries them over to the stove. Dean brings two plates of buttered toast over to the table and puts one down in front of you. You stare at the food, imagine chewing it up and swallowing it, eating breakfast like a normal human does every morning, but then you think about skin peeling off the bone, bodies reduced to ash, the way flesh smells when it starts to burn, and you choke back bile as you push the plate away.

“Oh what, you don’t like toast?” Dean sounds normal, his voice low and teasing with a bit of a gravely edge to it; meanwhile you can barely meet his eyes, remembering last night.

“I said I wasn’t hungry,” you mutter, and take an emphatic sip of coffee.

He gives you a look like he’s clearly unimpressed by your bad attitude. “I don’t remember asking.”

Your fingers tremble around your mug as you force yourself to look him in the eye. “I can’t right now. Okay?”

Something in his expression twitches or something, like you’ve hit on something that hurts him, but then he lifts a shoulder and picks up a piece of his toast. “Okay.”

You think you’re free and clear but then he leans forward, studying your face in a way that makes you feel overexposed. “You doing okay?” he asks.

“Oh yeah. Other than the fact that I watched my mom die a few days ago and was, you know, sliced up with a knife by a _demon_ , I’m just peachy.” You give him a big shit-eating smile, feeling a vicious thrill when his face falls and he looks away, like he’s been properly shamed.

He lets you drink your coffee in peace though and that’s all you’re really capable of right now, sitting and staring and drinking. The pill has made all the sharp edges inside you numb and soft and you’d forgotten what a relief it is, to be able to take something that makes the fear manageable, because when you think about it, what really happened, it’s just too much - this isn’t your life, this can’t be your life now.

This was never supposed to happen.

Sam comes back with a plate piled with scrambled eggs and a pot of coffee. He gives you a refill and earns himself a smile for his efforts, because okay, you take it back, or maybe you aren’t thinking straight right now but you decide Sam is your friend, Sam gives you coffee, Sam doesn’t make you feel weird and vulnerable and terrified in an exhilarating kind of way; you cradle your mug in your hands and try your best to look everywhere but Dean. You don’t know how to be normal with him, act like nothing happened between you last night, like you didn’t cry and hold onto him with a desperation you’ve never experienced before.

When you’re finished with your coffee you don’t really feel any better. You still have the same aching black hole in your chest that you had when you woke up this morning, half naked and alone, cold and hurt. You fold your arms over the table and drop your head down, giving up on any pretense that you’re fine, because what’s the point? They’ve already seen you half-naked and bleeding and feverish and crying; it’s not worth it to you, to pretend to be strong, when all you really want to do is lie down on the floor and curl up in a ball.

“Um… Caylee?” Sam’s hand on your shoulder is feather light. “You okay?”

You shrug under his touch and push away from the table. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Don’t forget to keep your bandage dry,” Dean calls after you as you start to walk away.

“I know, I’m not a moron!” you snap back, and stalk out of the kitchen before you can say something really snarky. 

You blink back a wave of tears as you walk down the hallway and manage to find the bathroom. You shut the door and lock it, press your forehead against the wood and clench your hands into fists. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, why you would yell at Dean like that when all he’s doing is trying to help. 

But it makes you feel kind of crazy, having two older guys hovering over you, constantly tracking you and noting your every movement. Your dad left when you were so young that you don’t really remember him and you don’t have brothers or cousins, you’ve never had a real boyfriend. You’re used to taking care of yourself and going to your mom if you needed help, you aren’t used to having other people constantly around.

But after what the demon did to you it’s pretty clear you can’t take care of yourself. 

You strip and get in the shower, let the hot water beat down on your shoulders like a punishment. You feel too tired to wash your hair so you leave it up and wash your body, shave with your razor and get out. Your towel is hanging on a hook and you wrap it around your body, drag yourself over to the mirror and wash your face. 

You stare at your reflection - you look better than yesterday but you’re still too pale, your pupils are pinned, your cheekbones seem sharp in a way that’s a little too extreme to look good. You hardly even recognize yourself and in some weird way you like it - that your outside reflects the inside, that you have a new look that goes with your new life, that you look as sick and broken as you feel.

You put your clothes on and shuffle back to your room. You check the time on your phone and it’s barely nine in the morning. A wave of vertigo hits you when you realize that you have the whole day in front of you and nothing to do, no way to fill the time. It sends a rush of panic through you so strong you sink down on the bed with weak legs, the idea of spending day after day in this timeless oblivion, locked in a cement box for your own safety, so lonely you feel like you could shatter into pieces.

You eye your bag on the floor and you reach for it on impulse. You take out the pill bottle and unscrew the cap, shake out two pills and stare down at them. You think about what Sam said - only four in twenty-four hours - but then you think about sitting here all day with the hole in your chest and the taste of smoke in the back of your throat and you swallow down the two pills dry, even though it hurts a little, because you’re too proud to go back to the kitchen and ask for water, and too slow to sneak back to the bathroom without getting caught.

You plug your headphones into your phone, start your music up, curl over onto your good side and wait for the pills to kick in.

*

You wake up with a dry mouth, your skin slick with sweat, headphones tangled around your neck. You yank them out of your phone, toss them off the bed and cover your face with your hands because you feel dizzy and fragile, a hair trigger away from bursting into tears. After a minute you check the time on your phone, it’s mid afternoon and you have no idea how long you’ve been sleeping.

You force yourself to sit up and groan at the pain that shoots down your side. You rest your hands on your knees and drop your head, just breathing, until you can pull it together enough to stand up. 

When you get up and start to walk you immediately start to fall sideways. You catch yourself on the wall and straighten up, slowly walk out of your room with one trailing along the wall. You make it down the hallways that way, your body barely functioning - all your muscles heavy and loose, your center of gravity a joke, your head bobbing on your neck like it’s too big. You trip over your own feet and giggle out loud at your own stupidity, and then you stop right there in the hallway at the realization that you must be stoned as shit right now, because nothing should be funny to you, not anymore.

Dean comes around from some corner, dressed in what seems to be his usual uniform of jeans and a flannel shirt over a tee. When he sees you he rushes over and you go still, lean up against the wall because it feels good, to surrender to his presence.

“Hey, you alright?” he asks when he reaches you.

You lick your chapped lips. “Can I have some water?”

He drops his head a little to peer into your eyes and whatever he sees there makes his forehead furrow. “Yeah, come on.”

He puts his arm around your shoulders and walks you to the kitchen. You lean against the counter while Dean gets a glass and fills it up from the sink, glides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks.” You drink it slowly, eyes half closed, feeling a little like you’re floating. The water is the best thing you’ve ever had, you drink it all down in a few seconds and put the empty glass in the sink.

And then it’s just you and Dean, alone together in the kitchen, facing each other, and you feel that thing, that electric cord between the two of you snap to life. You look up at him and everything blurs out of focus because you’re too out of it or maybe you’re crying, all you know is that looking up at him like this scrapes at something deep inside you that makes you want to hide from him and throw yourself at him at the same time, some terrifyingly vulnerable feeling you’ve never experienced before him.

You crumple forward and press your face into his chest, gulping for air at the sensation of his warm solid body, your hands reaching down to grip his hips. After a moment his arms come around you and you let out a dry sob, nuzzling up against him like you could crawl right into his chest. One of his hands come to cradle the back of your head and you shudder against his chest, your heart clenching painfully, the room spinning but Dean’s arms hold you in place.

“Okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

You shut your eyes and breathe shallowly against him, listening to the beat of his heart. His thumb trails underneath your jaw and you don’t dare move, savoring the gentleness of the touch. 

‘M sorry,” you whisper into his shirt. “About before.”

“It’s okay.”

“Dean,” you whine softly, even as you realize you don’t know what you mean, what you want from him, as if he can do something beyond keeping you alive, sewing your skin shut, like that could do anything for the way you feel on the inside.

“Shh.” His arms tighten around you and you melt, knees going soft.

You want to stay here forever, in his arms, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against yours, finally warm, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves singing out in contentment, the bliss of being held so tightly that it blocks out everything else, it’s almost enough to make hole in your chest not hurt.

“C’mon,” he says, kind but also firm. “I’ll make you something to eat.”

You’re too tired to fight him. Whatever earlier anger fueled you this morning has burnt out, you’re too messed up to function and this is all you could ask for right now: being told what to do, bring taken care of. 

As much as you hate it on principle - the loss of your independence, the impediment of your injury, your deferrence to Dean and Sam, like, _professionally_ (their job is saving your life, which means right now they’re in charge of your life) - there’s this huge part of you that feels relieved, that you don’t have to figure out what to do on your own, that you can lose yourself in your grief completely and somehow still be taken care of, because that’s your life now - you are someone’s job, and not just someone, but hunters, and this is what they do.

They save people. It’s their job to save you, keep you alive, take care of you. It’s their whole deal, protecting the innocent (while getting to kill all kinds of monsters, if you’re into that sort of thing). And innocent people probably include a girl who’ve never even tried to cast a spell, a girl who walked into a trap and had to be carried out bleeding all over her beautiful dress.

So if all you have to do right now is sit in a chair and eat a sandwich, well, that’s all you can handle right now anyway.

*

After you eat a grilled cheese while Dean sits next to you, like he has nothing better to do but watch you eat, he takes you into the room where you watched a movie yesterday and sets you up with his laptop and Netflix account.

“What’re you gonna do?” you ask him.

“Work.”

You curl up into the corner of the couch. “Okay.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He runs one hand through his hair and walks away.

You lean forward and scroll for awhile before choosing Friends and starting at the beginning, because you could use something old and familiar, comforting. You stretch out on your left side, vaguely aware of the pulse of your stitches, the pound in your temples, a chill running through your bones. You shiver and shiver, your body so heavy and cold, but you don’t have enough energy to go get a blanket. You lie there and try not to think about how long you’re going to do this, or how long you can possibly do this before you go absolutely crazy.

You drift off at some point because when you wake up Dean is hovering over you and it makes the air rush out of your lungs at the sight of him, those eyes, this close to your face. 

“Hey,” you rasp. “What’s up?”

“Dinner time.”

You squint at him. “Already?”

“You were sleeping for awhile.”

You rub your eyes. “I was?”

He presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a fever.”

You curl away from his hand, feeling a little overwhelmed at the attention. “I’m fine, I’m just tired.”

“You sure?”

You blink furiously, trying to get his face to focus. “Huh?”

His mouth twists to the side, like he’s worried. “You’ve been acting a little strange all day.”

You can’t help it, it’s just so funny you burst into giggles while he stares at you, bewildered. 

“Sorry,” you apologize. “It’s just that one, you hardly know me, so you don’t really know what me acting strange would even look like, and two, and I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud but um, oh yeah, my mom died, and three, there’s also all the, you know. What are we calling it? An enchilada?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come on, food’s in the other room.”

He puts his hand on your shoulder as you sit up and you’re too weak to resist his touch this time, you feel groggy and weak and he’s right there, helping you stand up and you let him. He leads you to a room with a long table and high ceilings, Sam’s sitting in front of a big bag of take out, digging through containers.

“Hey.” He offers you a smile and slides a container across the table to you. “You like pasta?”

You shrug, you don’t feel that hungry but you sit down across from him anyway, and peel the foil lid off the container, revealing a heaping serving of ravioli with basil. “Thank you.”

Sam break off a hunk of garlic bread. “No problem.”

Dean sits down next to you, not touching but close enough that you can feel the heat from his body. You pick up your plastic fork, spear a ravioli, examine it thoroughly and force yourself to pop it in your mouth. It tastes okay, nothing special, but your stomach growls and there’s something nice about the whole thing anyway, sitting around a table eating a meal, Sam and Dean opening beers and bickering gently with each other.

Like how it might have felt to have a real family, not just you and your mom, the long nights you spent alone growing up eating instant Mac and cheese when she was at the coven.

“How is it?” Dean asks.

You take a deep breath and try to just let yourself be here, eating dinner with two guys, brothers who grew up like you, your life a secret, part of something bigger than yourself whether you like it or not.

“Good,” you answer, and it almost doesn’t feel like a lie.

*

You can’t sleep that night. You take another pill and lie down on your bed but even though you feel heavy and warm and numb you’re too afraid to turn the light off, you’re so tense you’re almost vibrating. The worst part is you can’t walk it off, you can hardly move without your side hurting, you aren’t even capable of nervous pacing or moving through some yoga poses.

So you lie there, rigid on top of the bed, changed into a pair of boy shorts and a bralette under your new cream colored henley, eyes wide open with all the lights on, listening to the beat of your heart. You think about having to lie here all night and it’s unbearable, you’ll lose it, there’s no way. You drag yourself off the bed and walk to the doorway, feeling a little unstable and you try to add up how many pills you’ve taken today - four? - and you think, okay, not great, but you can handle it, you’re standing, aren’t you?

You flick off your light and cross the hall to Dean’s room.

You rest your hand on the door and gently push, relieved when it opens under your touch. His light is off; Dean’s stretched out on his back in bed, shirtless, and you hover in the doorway. You have a feeling that it's a very bad idea to wake up a hunter but then you think about the other day, Dean knowing you were watching him without even looking your way, so you wait, your hands trembling with anxiety, for him to notice you.

Sure enough, after only a few seconds, Dean cracks one eye open to look at you. “What’s up?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“And what exactly would you like me to do about that?”

You lean your head against the side of the doorframe. The part of you that’s been swallowing pills all day, the part of you that’s so sad you can’t see the point in anything, is so tired you could almost fall asleep right there, but the other part of you, the part that feels like you’re merely a hunted animal trapped in a cage, afraid of being hurt again, of dying like your mom, that part makes your stomach ache and your heart race with manic energy like you’ll never be able to truly relax ever again.

“Can I get in with you?” you ask him quietly.

Dean sighs but then he flips the covers back and gestures to you. You figure that’s as much of an invitation as you’ll get from him so you slip into his room and shut the door behind you, walk over to the bed and climb in next to him.

You pull the covers up to your shoulders and flop over onto your left side, facing away from him. You feel very small and alone, even this close to him, like there’s nothing keeping you here, the black hole in your chest getting bigger and bigger, but then Dean slides in close behind you, not exactly spooning but he’s close enough for you to feel the heat of his body, and the edge of the hole recedes.

“Go to sleep,” he whispers.

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Try.”

“Thanks, that’s _so_ helpful.”

“Hey.” He’s so close, you can feel his breath against your neck. “C’mon, you could at least _try_ and relax.”

You grit your teeth, you don’t understand how he thinks you can just turn everything off like that. Every time you close your eyes you’re back in that chair, trapped, your head ringing with screams. You start to shake, remembering the way the ropes had dug into your wrists, how the smell had crawled down your throat and how you’d been paralyzed by fear.

“Hey, hey.” Dean’s hand wraps around your hip bone, just under the line of your stitches. “It’s okay.”

“S-sorry,” you stutter.

His hand feels so big on you, fingers just tight enough to keep you focused on it. “It’s okay.”

You lie there, his body behind yours, his hand on your hip and it’s the only thing keeping you grounded in reality, the heat of his palm sinking through the thin fabric of your boy shorts. You close your eyes and cover your mouth with your hands, trying to be quiet, to relax like he told you to, but all that does is make you take choppy painful breaths in through your nose.

His grip on you tightens just enough to make you react, stomach contracting at the firmness of his touch. It’s not sexual but it is intense, being held like this. Maybe with anyone else it would feel weird but not with Dean. He’s seen you bleeding, seen you cry so hard you thought you’d puke, he’s cut bloody clothes off your body. This, sort-of cuddling like this, half dressed, is nothing compared to some of the ways he’s already touched you. It just feels right, to let him use his hold on you to pull you into him so his chest is plastered against your back, let him try to soothe you.

“Just relax,” he coaxes, voice low. “Everything’s okay.”

You wonder how you’re ever going to learn how to fall asleep without Dean and decide that’s a problem you’ll deal with later. You’re just so tired and his thumb is gliding back and forth over your stomach and your muscles are melting, you can feel yourself sinking deeper into the mattress.

“That’s it,” he says gently, like he’s proud of you for calming down instead of having another meltdown. “I’ve got you.”

You’re past being able to construct sentences but you nod, to show him you’re listening, and snuggle back against his chest, letting out a shuddery breath. You wonder what your mother, the woman who told you to never trust anyone and especially not a hunter, would think about you in the arms of not just any hunter but a Winchester, and then you realize it doesn’t matter what she thinks, because she isn’t here anymore. 

And maybe it’s a betrayal but you don’t care right now. You need this; someone holding you tightly so you can’t break, whispering soft gentle words, whatever it takes to keep you away from that dark edge, that place inside yourself you won’t be able to come back from.

You need him.


	9. darkness

You wake up wrapped in muscular arms, a hand spread flat over your stomach under your shirt and warmth is flowing through your body, syrupy and heavy. It’s so disorienting, waking up feeling _good_ , that it takes you a few seconds to realize that what you’re feeling is arousal. You’re a little shocked, you sort of assumed that part of you had gone into hibernation. But now that you’re aware of it you can really feel it - how relaxed your muscles are, the ache in your pelvis, the pulse between your legs.

It feels so good you resolutely keep your eyes closed and your breathing even, feigning sleep, and do your best not to subconsciously push into his hand. You can feel Dean hard against the small of your back and then your head really starts spinning. He’s been a little flirty, sure, but not in any way that’s made you think he actually wants you, has any interest in you beyond killing the demon and sending you on your way. But maybe he’s just asleep, maybe you’re just a warm body to him right now, and it’s such a simple idea but your life hasn’t exactly been simple exactly - just lying in bed with a guy because it feels good, letting it feel good and not being overwhelmed with guilt that so many people you know are dead but you’re not, you’re experiencing the exquisite pleasure of being held in Dean Winchester’s arms.

He sighs into your neck and it makes you shiver. You focus on the steady pulse of heat that’s building low in your stomach and let your eyes drift shut. You wish you could lie here forever, warm and safe and desire unspooling through you. It feels like such a respite, just to feel good for a few minutes, warm and safe, steady hands holding you securely to a strong body and it’s almost like having a dream in the middle of the nightmare that is your new life and you don’t want to wake up.

You feel it when Dean does though, because he goes a little stiff and then freezes, arms still tight around you, like he doesn’t know what to do. “Hey,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “You awake?”

You sigh into the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

To your surprise he relaxes against you and you snuggle back into him, warm and relieved. He doesn’t do anything more, doesn’t slide his hand between your legs or kiss your neck but it’s enough for you, to be held, to feel relaxed, to remember what it feels like to feel good, even if it’s just for a little while.

Five minutes pass way too fast, Dean clears his throat like a warning before he rolls away, you’re instantly cold without his arms around you and you crawl out of bed. You feel awkward as you hover next to his nightstand, like the morning after a one night stand except you didn’t even get an orgasm out of it, while he haphazardly makes his bed and yanks on a shirt.

“C’mon, let’s make some breakfast.” Dean pads in bare feet to the door and waits for you to catch up to him.

You wrap your arms around your waist and trudge down the hallway behind him to the kitchen. Sam’s already there, doing something on a laptop, a notebook turned to an open page covered in scribbles next to it. To your relief there’s a pot of coffee brewing on the counter and you let Dean lead you to the table. 

“Hey.” Sam gives you a bleary smile, like he’s been staring at this stuff for hours. “Hey Dean, can you check this out?”

Dean glances sideways at you. “Sure.”

“Is it okay if I…” You gesture at the coffee pot.

“Yeah, help yourself,” Sam offers.

“Thanks.” You stumble across the kitchen and grab a clean mug, pour coffee into it and hold it up to your face just to smell it.

You find a container of hazelnut creamer in the fridge that’s still fresh and pour a little into your mug, swirl it around and carry it back from the table. You sit down across from Sam and Dean, who’s now hovering over Sam’s shoulder reading something in the notebook with a frown over his face.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” they both say at the same time.

You curl over your mug of coffee. “Whatever.”

Dean and Sam do that brother telepathy thing for a minute and then Dean shuts the notebook and drops it down on the table. Sam shuts his laptop and they both get up to make breakfast, leaving you alone at the table, and it’s so stupid but you suddenly feel so lonely you could cry into your coffee. You don’t envy their lifestyle but at least they have each other, at least they aren’t all alone in the dark by themselves.

You slowly drink your coffee and the caffeine makes you feel mildly better, the throbbing in your temples goes down at least. You watch the brothers move around each other as they cook, their easy banter, how loose and fluid they are while still tensing up every time the other one makes a loud noise, classic hunter hypervigilance on display.

When they come back to the table with their food Dean places a bowl full of cereal in front of you. Your peer down at it, your throat tightening at the idea of swallowing Frosted Flakes and milk. Dean must catch your face, because he gives you an annoyed look as he sits down.

“What?” he asks.

“I’m not eating that.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want it,” you mutter.

“You want something else, you make it yourself,” he tells you, and starts eating an Eggo.

“What if I was lactose intolerant?”

“You aren’t lactose intolerant.”

“I _could_ be.”

He smirks. “You ate a whole grilled cheese yesterday.”

You glare at him. “That’s not the point.”

“ _Is_ there a point?”

You clutch your mug. “I’m not hungry.”

“Wow you are _really_ not a morning person,” he snickers.

“Dude, just let her drink her coffee in peace,” Sam comments, dragging his fork through some kind of egg scramble.

“Thank you.” You give Sam an appreciative smile.

Dean rolls his eyes but backs off and focuses on his waffles. You curl up in your seat, thinking about your mom, how she’s never going to have a cup of coffee again because she’s nothing but ashes and dust and _allyourfault,_ the black hole inside your chest whispers at you.

It’s all your fault.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you announce, and drain the rest of your mug.

“Clean your stitches when you’re done,” Dean reminds you.

You freeze. You don’t want to clean your stitches, you don’t want to even look at your stitches. It makes you feel lightheaded just to think about it. No way, you can’t do it. Not happening.

You widen your eyes at Dean and duck your head a little, pouting your lips as you give him your best ingenue face. “Will you do it for me?”

He leans back in his chair and runs one hand over his jaw. “Alright.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Come get me when you’re outta the shower.”

You swallow back a rush of anticipation at the idea of his hands all over you again. “Okay.”

You fill up a glass of water and take it to your room, set it on the nightstand and dig through the bags you still haven’t unpacked for clean clothes to change into after your shower. You rip the tags off the pink leggings and lay it out on your bed with clean underwear. You go over to get your towel and then stop, pivot back around and grab your black bag.

You screw off the cap of the pill bottle and shake them all out into your cupped palms, then count each pill as you put it back. You feel a wave of panicked dread, even if you pace yourself there’s only enough to last you maybe four more days, and you have a feeling Sam won’t be so nice and sweet with you if you go through all of his and Dean’s prime painkillers.

And then you think, fuck it, becuase you don’t feel guilty about doing that, you feel like you’re splitting apart and you’re doing what you have to do to survive, they could probably understand that. You bite a pill in half and chew it up so it’ll hit you faster, mouth watering at the bitterness as you reach for your glass of water and take a few sips to swallow it all down.

You don’t feel its effects until you’re standing in the shower, water running down your back. It’s nothing like the intensity in the beginning, that rush of warmth and darkness pulling you under, wrapping you up in something soft and protective so nothing hurts. This time it’s subtle, a relaxing of your lungs, your muscles, your head sagging, but instead of feeling better, all it does is make you want more.

You manage to wash your hair with your left hand so you don’t pull your side, do your best to soap up without getting your bandage wet. You shave under your arms and your legs and get out, wrap a towel around yourself and shuffle back to your room. You change into the leggings you laid out earlier and a bralette, shake your wet hair out so it falls down your back, and examine your stomach, the bandage that runs down your side.

You reach for your bag and take out another pill because you want it and you can’t deny yourself, not when you’ve lost everything already, and toss it back with a drink of water. You wipe the back of your mouth and sink down on the edge of the bed, thinking of putting on headphones and waiting for the pill to kick in but then you remember that you need to get your stitches cleaned and you get back up and wander down the hallway to look for Dean.

You find him in that room with the long table, talking with Sam in a tense, hushed voice. You hang back, feeling like you’re interrupting, but you also don’t want them to think you’re trying to spy on them so you figure you may as well announce yourself.

“Hey,” you say, hovering in the doorway.

Both of their eyes slide over to you and you hunch over a little, self conscious, feeling like you should’ve put on a shirt. As generally cool and respectful as they’ve been it must be weird for them to have a girl constantly in their space. Dean mutters something to Sam, who nods and shuffles up a bunch of papers and tucks them under his arm. Sam makes his way over to you and offers you a little smile.

“I’m going on a job, I’ll be back tomorrow,” he tells you. “Dean’s gonna hang back here with you.”

“Oh, okay.” You glance back at Dean, who’s fiddling with his watch and looks vaguely annoyed. “Is there some hunter version of break a leg?”

Sam lets out a dry laugh. “Good luck will suffice.”

“Good luck,” you say, and you think about hugging him but maybe that would be weird and anyway you’re feeling a little lightheaded, you lean against the doorway and offer him a small smile.

“Thanks.” Sam gives your arm a gentle squeeze and turns around to look back at Dean. “Call you when you get there?”

“Yeah.” Dean barely looks at him and something flickers across Sam’s face but he shoves his hand through his hair and shrugs.

“Okay. See you tomorrow.” Sam doesn’t seem too concerned about whatever is going on with them, or maybe they’re just like this, used to splitting up and taking separate jobs. You thought hunters always worked in pairs though and then you feel like an idiot when you realize the only reason Dean must be staying here is because of you, they must not trust you to be okay here on your own.

Sam leaves you alone with Dean, who’s still halfway across the room leaning up against the table. You bite your lip, waiting for him to come to you, but he’s looking vaguely down at some papers scattered on the table.

“Dean?” you prompt tentatively. “My stitches.”

“Right,” he mutters. He crosses the room to you and puts one hand on your shoulder to gently turn you around. “Come on.”

“Is Sam gonna be okay?” you ask him as you walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Yeah he’s just helping out a friend, he’ll be fine.”

“A hunter friend?”

“Mhmm.”

It must be nice, you think, having people you can relate to, commiserate with. You never got close to the witches you grew up with because your mom kept you away from the coven as much as she could and you couldn't have regular friends, it wasn’t safe, it could’ve put your mom in danger, for normal people to find out what she was involved in.

“How’d you guys pick who went?” you ask.

“We flipped for it.”

You glance sideways at him. “Did you win or lose?”

He looks away from you, which is answer enough, and you think that would normally hurt your feelings but you’re not feeling much of anything right now except for warmth and a little dizziness. Dean leads you into the bathroom and you wait next to the sink while he gets a clean washcloth and washes his hands. He takes your bandage off and you resolutely stare straight at his chest, zoning out as the grey heather of his tee shirt blurs in front of your eyes.

His left hand settles against your side and you sigh at how warm his hand feels on you. Your head feels very heavy and you let it tip to the side as he brings the washcloth to your stitches and begins to clean around them.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Mhmm.” 

He continues to wash your skin as you try to stay upright, heat pooling in your stomach. You breathe and ride the wave, you know you’re only feeling this good because of the second pill but right now you don’t care, because Dean’s hands are all over your stomach and your muscles have gone soft and you could float away like this except he’s holding you so firmly and that’s even better.

When he’s done cleaning your stitches he gets gauze and bandages them, using medical tape to keep it covered. He puts everything away while you hold onto the sink, that same crushing feeling you had yesterday starting to creep over you, the remembrance that you’re trapped here with nothing to do except replay the worst night of your life over and over again until you go crazy.

“Hey.” Dean is right in front of you all of a sudden. “You okay?”

You look up at him and he’s bending down a little so all you can see are those green eyes, the light dusting of freckles, plush lips. Your stomach drops and you curl your fingers around the sink. “Am I going to die?” you whisper.

“No,” he snaps, and then one of his hands is cupping around your jaw. “I’m not going to let you die. Got it?”

It should scare you, a hunter’s hand so close to your throat, but it doesn’t, because it’s Dean hand, and he’s never done anything that’s hurt you. You blink up at him, trapped between his body and the sink, and this time you do it, you lean forward and rest your forehead against his sternum, turning your head to feel the beat of his heart against your cheek. The hand on your jaw slides around to cup the back of your head and his free arm wraps around your shoulders. You let go of the sink and loop your arms around his waist, breathing shallowly, wishing you could stay here forever, coasting along on narcotics and the warmth of his body around yours.

His hand smooths over your hair. “You hungry?”

You shake your head against his chest, struggling to keep your eyes open. He must not like that response because he lets go of you so he can bend down and examine your face. “Come on,” he says. “You’re gonna feel like shit if you don’t eat something.”

“I already feel like shit,” you reply, and his expression darkens a little as he pulls away.

“Suit yourself,” he grumbles. 

“I’m gonna go put a shirt on,” you mutter, and brush past him as you leave the bathroom.

By the time you go inside your room and shut the door you’re on the verge of tears. You don’t understand this thing with you and Dean, don’t get why you keep snapping at him when all you really want is for him to touch you long enough to make you forget about everything bad that’s ever happened to you. He’s just trying to be a good person, offering to feed you and giving you advice, you can’t figure out why you keep pushing back. Maybe it’s because you know that he’s really all you have, except for Sam, if you let yourself get too close to Dean you’re only setting yourself up for disaster.

It isn’t safe, to let yourself get close to anyone anymore. Maybe not ever.

You yank on a grey muscle tee and find your headphones, turn on some music and sit on the edge of your bed until you don’t feel like you’re going to cry anymore. You check the time on your phone and flop back on your bed in surrender. It’s just another day in your new life, where you white knuckle through every hour that you can manage to stay conscious for. 

You look sideways at your black bag sitting on top of the nightstand. You know you shouldn’t, you know the faster you take them the faster you’ll run out, but all that you can think about is that another pill would make this feeling go away, make the hours and hours in front of you tolerable, and maybe it's a survival instinct, because you really feel like you need more and there’s nothing to make you stop yourself.

You bite a pill in half and tell yourself you can have half now, half later, but later ends up being only an hour because you can’t handle it sitting there, out in the open, taunting you.

You lie back on the bed staring up at the ceiling as your music playlist cycles into a new one, feeling like you’re floating as your body sinks into the mattress. You drift, listening to music and don’t think about anything. You don’t think about the scar you’ll have when Dean eventually takes your stitches out, you don’t think about all those young people crying and screaming as the flames grew, you don’t think about how helpless you felt, tied to that chair and forced to watch, you don’t think about how your mother died for you.

You don’t think about anything.

Eventually you realize your mouth is sort of dry and you sit up to pick up your water glass. But just that is enough to make you think about taking another pill and you know you’ve had a few already today but you still have some left and you can’t remember exactly when you took that last half but you’re sure it’s been a few hours. You do it without even thinking it through, pop a pill and chew up it, screwing your face up at the bitter taste, and chase the chalky powder back with the last of your water.

You lie back down and after awhile you feel a rush of something amazing, like liquid heat in your veins, and you shut your eyes against it, let the feeling carry you away until you’re nothing but beats in the song playing in your headphones and a distant ache in your side. You manage to drift off into a half sleep for awhile but you wake up terribly thirsty, and when you sit up the walls spin and you have to bend over to cradle your head in your hands for a full minute before you manage to stand up.

You know immediately that you’ve fucked up, you’ve taken more than you should’ve, because your knees go out and you reach wildly for the wall, just avoiding crashing your bad side into it as you catch yourself. You press your palm into the wall and take a few breaths, use your hand to push off and stumble to the nightstand to grab your glass but your hands are shaking so you forget about it, you turn around and drag yourself out of your room to get more water from the kitchen.

You have to keep one hand against the wall to stop yourself from falling as you stumble down the hallway. You’re so tired and lightheaded, it’s hard to keep your eyes open but you’re so thirsty and also starting to feel a little nauseous so you keep going, vaguely aware that there are shadows crowding at the edges of your vision and a bitter taste in the back of your mouth. It’s getting harder to walk though, your stomach starting to cramp up and maybe this was a bad idea, maybe you should’ve had breakfast, maybe you shouldn’t have taken so many pills, maybe you shouldn’t have answered the phone when your mother called you that morning, maybe you should’ve gone to college across the country and cut ties for your own safety but you didn’t, you didn’t do any of those things and now you’re here, about to throw up all over a hunter’s linoleum.

Dean comes around the corner and you can’t help but sag against the wall in defeat. He’s too observant, he knows something’s going on beyond all the other shit you’re dealing with and you’ve got a feeling he isn’t going to be too thrilled about your fledgling drug habit. You blink heavily, breathing through your nose, and wait for the shitstorm to start.

Of course, because he’s Dean, he notices you immediately and stalks over to you, ducking his head to look at your face and when you make eye contact his expression drops and he pins you back against the wall as he reaches out to brace your head in one of his hands.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, voice low and growly.

You stare hazily at him, you can’t get your eyes to focus and your tongue is heavy in your mouth. His eyes widen slightly and he frowns as he slides two fingers under your jaw, looking directly into your eyes. “Shit, did you take something?”

You lick your dry lips. “Sorry,” you rasp out.

“What?” he asks urgently. “What’d you take?”

“Pills,” you slur, and your head falls sideways into his cupped hand. “I don’t… I don’t feel so good.”

“Jesus _Christ_.” He clamps one hand around your upper arm and hustles you down the hall to the bathroom, kicks the door open and parks you in front of the toilet.

You hunch over it and gag but nothing comes up because you haven’t eaten anything since last night so you just retch while Dean holds your hair until it’s over and you slump down onto the floor. He’s towering over you, reaching over to fill up a cup from the sink. He crouches down and holds it out to you, you take it and rinse out your mouth, spit into the toilet and flush. 

Above you Dean sighs, his arms crossed over his chest. “Where are they?”

You curl up in a ball, your back against the toilet because that’s how little you care, you’re barely conscious right now. “My room. In my bag.”

“Okay.” He gives you a stern look. “Don’t move, I’ll be back in five minutes.”

You shrug, because where the hell are you going to go anyway, you can hardly move and you’re pretty sure you’re dehydrated to boot, so you rest your cheek on your knees and wait for Dean to come back, because that’s all your life is now - waiting for Dean, for him to feed you, carry you, entertain you, talk to you, tell you what to do.

Save you.

You shut your eyes and push the heels of your hands into them, just to watch the light scatter across the darkness of your closed eyelids.


	10. help

When Dean comes back you’re right where he left you, sitting in a ball on the bathroom floor, head in your hands.

“Hey, hey, hey.” He rushes over to you, big hands coming over yours to pull them away from your face. “How’re we doing?”

You look at him but all you see is a blur of green and gold, his features refusing to resolve. You know you should be worried, afraid even, that he’s about to freak out on you, and there’s no Sam to take your side or defend you right now but you don’t even care, because as far as you’re concerned nothing matters anymore, nothing except the warmth running through your veins and the fact that right now, like a blessing, nothing hurts.

“Fuck off,” you slur out. 

He glares at you and tips your chin up so he can look at your pinned pupils, wraps his fingers around your wrist and time your heart rate with his watch. “How many did you take?”

You blink slowly, your eyelids are so heavy and you wish he’d just go, leave you here to ride out your high on the bathroom floor. “Today?”

“Yeah Einstein, a number would be helpful.”

“Uh…”

“Tell me you know how many you took.”

“Um… four, I think.”

His fingers tighten around your wrist. “At once?”

“No, since, since breakfast.”

“That you didn’t eat.”

“Dude,” you groan. “You’re killing my buzz.”

“Boo-fucking-hoo. Cry me a river, princess.”

“I did that already,” you whisper, just to watch him recoil.

“Whatever.” A little muscle in his jaw twitches as he stands up. “Let’s go.”

You stare at him, waiting for him to scoop you up or at least offer you his hand but he just looks down at you, standing impatiently with his hands in his back pockets, face a mask. You realize he’s serious, he’s not going to help you up, and all you can do is gape up at him. Is he really just going to stand there and make you get up and walk all on your own?

The answer is yes, apparently, because Dean’s patient enough to wait without comment as you drag yourself off the floor, barely managing to get your balance once you’re upright. He walks out of the bathroom, forcing you to follow him, and you’re so unsteady that when you cross into the hallway you stumble right into the wall and have to catch yourself with both hands so you don’t ricochet off it and fall down.

“Seriously?” Dean comments, a little snide.

You turn your head to the side to give him a venomous, teary-eyed glare. “Well, you’re not _helping_ me!”

You know you’re acting like a spoiled brat, he saved your life and you’re squandering what’s left of it, he doesn’t owe you anything. But you thought there was an understanding between the two of you, that you need him, that he’s going to help you until he kills the demon and you presumably get to go back to real life again, as if you have anything to go back to now. You get that he has the right to be mad at you but you can feel him pulling back, shutting down, and that terrifies you, losing him like that, even if you’re too proud to admit it out loud.

Next to you Dean works his jaw. “Can you walk or not?”

You blink and feel a tear roll down your face, you shake your head slightly at him and bite down on the inside of your cheek, the pain distracting you from the feeling that you’re a hair trigger away from really starting to cry.

“Alright,” he mutters, and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second. “Okay.”

He takes you by the wrists and peels you off the wall, you careen right into him and clutch onto his shirt as he slides his hands up under your arms to keep you upright. You press your face into his chest, forcing him into a pseudo hug you realize, some distant wave of disgust at yourself floating up through the drug haze, of being _that girl_ , clingy and desperate, but Dean only sighs.

“C’mon,” he says gruffly. “We need to talk.”

Great.

He walks you through the twisting maze of the hallway, his arm tight around your shoulders, all the way to the room where you watched a movie the other night. He sets you down on the couch but instead of sitting with you he hovers over you, one hand brushing over the back of your neck, your cheek, your wrist.

“I’m going to get you some water, okay?” he says in a low voice. “And something to eat.”

You lean your head back against the couch, eyes half-open. “Whatever.”

“Hey.” He leans forward a little and gets in your face so you have to look at him. “Don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m okay,” you sigh.

“You’re so full of shit,” he mutters. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Mhmm.” You manage a nod and Dean frowns but he leaves you there anyway, alone on the couch.

The thing about being so fucked up is that you’ve lost your sense of time, you don’t know if he’s gone for a minute or an hour but it doesn’t matter to you, you melt into the couch and stare blankly at the opposite wall, your head full of static fuzz but you can sense a haze of dread on the horizon, not close enough for you to feel it right now but you know it’s coming, you know you’re in a temporary grace period that will end as soon as the last of the drugs filter out of your system.

Dean comes back with a glass of water and a plate of buttered toast. He hands the water to you and stands there while you sip half of it slowly, holding the glass in both hands so you don’t drop it. He takes it back and reaches for a piece of toast, sitting on the arm of the couch so he can hand it to you but you don’t take it, your mouth has gone dry and your throat feels tight.

“Quit fucking around,” he grumbles, and presses a napkin with half a slice of the toast into your hand and you’re so weak you can’t push him away.

You stare down at it and manage to bring it to your lips, but then you gag and drop it into your lap. “I can’t.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you flinch, eyes filling with guilty tears because you’re such a fuck up, you’re making things so much harder than they need to be and why should he bother trying to help you when you can’t even bring yourself to accept it?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your hands trembling. “I… I keep…”

Dean rubs his temples. “What?”

“I… I can still smell them,” you confess, and drop your head into your hands so he can’t see your face screw up as you start to cry.

“Alright, hey, it’s okay.” He drops down onto the couch cushion and spreads his hand over your back. “Take a breath.”

You nod into your hands and try to relax under the weight of his touch, take in a few shuddering breaths and wipe your eyes. “Sorry.”

His hand slides up to your neck and he squeezes it gently. “It’s okay. You still need to eat that though.”

You know he’s right, even though you don’t want to, but the only thing worse than this would be to make him make you do it, which would be so humiliating you feel ashamed just thinking about it. “Okay.”

He hands you back the toast and you force yourself to eat it, chewing it up in minuscule bites that taste like ash on your tongue but you eat and eat anyway, Dean’s thumb gently teasing up and down the side of your neck and you zone out, _chew chew chew_ , as fast as you can without choking, until you’ve managed to finish it all.

He gives you a paper napkin and you wipe your fingers, the toast sitting heavy in your stomach like lead but you did it and that’s what matters, and it makes you feel slightly better, like you’ve remembered that you’re actually an adult who’s responsible for taking care of herself and not a pathetic child on a hunger strike. Dean takes your plate to the kitchen and comes back, you track him with your eyes as he crosses the room to you but instead of sitting on the couch he perches on the edge of the coffee table; you watch as he leans forward towards you and braces his hands on his thighs.

“We need to deal with this,” he says, and your stomach drops.

You tap your fingers together and look down at your lap, feeling even more drowsy now that there’s food in your stomach. “I know.”

“Can you look at me please?” he asks. His voice is low and steady and that’s even worse, you wish he’d just yell at you and get it over with.

You dare looking up at him and instantly regret it, he looks gravely serious and you shrink back, trying to create more space between you but he won’t let you, leaning forward so his knees bracket yours.

“Were you trying to hurt yourself?” he asks quietly.

You startle, that wasn’t the question you were expecting him to ask. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Then what the hell were you thinking?”

“I just wanted it to stop hurting.” Your voice shakes and you try to look away but he catches the sides of your face in his palms.

“Where?” Dean sounds worried. “Your stitches?”

“Everywhere,” you bite out, and crumple forward, sliding halfway off the couch as you crash into him but he catches you, because Dean always catches you.

He shifts forward onto the couch and pulls you into him, turning you sideways so you end up in his lap and you bury your face in his chest, closing your eyes against your blurring vision.

“I’m sorry,” you moan.

He huffs a little but he still holds onto you tightly. “I know.”

You whimper and push your forehead into him. “Don’t be mad.”

He twines his fingers around one of your waves and lightly tugs on it, like a gentle reprimand. “If you really think this is me acting mad you have another thing coming. Give me a little credit, I’m being incredibly restrained right now.”

“Dean.” You start to cry, pathetic little sniffs because you’re too out of it and tired to have enough energy to really get worked up, so you curl into him and make little hurt animal noises instead, because those pills were the only thing that made all that pain go away and now you don’t even have them anymore. “It hurts.”

He leans down and rests his cheek to the top of your head. “I know it does.”

He lets you sit there for a long time, crying quietly into his chest, but eventually he pries you off him so he can look at you. “No more pills,” he says firmly.

“But” - 

“No but’s. End of discussion. You have no legitimate argument and you know it so you might as well save your breath princess.”

“Okay,” you agree reluctantly.

“Look, I get that you’re going through hell right now,” he says bluntly. “But the way out isn’t through the bottom of a pill bottle.”

You blink heavily at him. “You sure about that?”

He leans his head against the back of the couch. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“I already hurt.”

“Oh yeah, you really wanna add the pain of detoxing to the list? Because we can do that, I wasn’t actually joking about the dungeons.”

You try to glare at him but your face doesn’t want to move, you’re amazed you’re even holding your head up right now. “I’m fine.”

He raises a scornful eyebrow at you. “Four pills in as many hours, yeah, you’re fine.”

“It’s not like I overdosed,” you mutter.

“Yeah and you’re not gonna.”

“Obviously.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh. “You do get they could just bring you back if you did. If they wanted to.”

You stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re on the chessboard.”

“No metaphors,” you groan. “Brain on drugs, keep it simple please.”

“Fine.” Dean picks you up by the waist and plunks you down next to him on the couch. “Okay. So, a little refresher since you apparently need it. Heaven”- he holds one hand up above his head - “is up here. Angel central. That’s how we found out you needed help, remember? You with me so far?”

You lean the side of your face against the back of the couch, doing your best to stay awake. “Uh-huh.”

“Okay.” He holds his other hand down towards the floor. “Here’s hell. Demons, excetera, all kinds of nasty shit you don’t need to know about. Now, here, in the middle, is earth. That’s the chessboard, okay?”

You rub your forehead. “And I’m on it? Along with everyone on the planet?”

“No. Only certain people get to be on the board although I wouldn’t exactly say that’s an honor.”

“But I am?”

“At this point, yeah.”

You try to push through the fog of the drugs, attempting to understand what exactly he’s telling you. “But… I’m no one. I can’t even do magic.”

He looks impatient. “We back to this? I told you, you’ve got a big demon shaped target on your back, you probably can’t even imagine what they’d like to do with you.”

“So I’m special.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, but he says it like it’s a bad thing. “Which means the guys upstairs have, let’s just say, an investment in keeping you alive.”

“Like you?” He said almost the exact same thing when you asked him why he was helping you the night you tore your stitches.

“Yeah,” he confirms.

“But you won’t tell me why.”

“I’m telling you what you need to know.”

“You aren’t telling me anything!”

“I’m trying to explain to you that this is the situation and you need to accept it. I get that your mom thought she was protecting you by trying to keep you out of the coven but that’s done. You’re part of this. This is your life now. Like it or not, you were chosen by your - sorry, their coven leader. They were never going to let you go.”

Your bottom lip trembles. “But - I don’t want it. I never wanted this.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says. “No one would.”

He reaches for you but you go down first, curling over on your side as panic washes over you. He’s right, you’re never getting out of this life now, you’ve missed your chance and you’ll never be free, you’ll never be normal, for the rest of your pathetic life you’ll be an orphan with a neck tattoo, haunted by things most people don’t even know exist.

“Caylee?” His hand comes to your shoulder but you hardly feel it, you’re frozen, numb with fear.

It was one thing, to keep certain things, details about your life a secret, so you could blend in, slide under the radar, but that’s over, your double life, trying to have both - magic, your mom, your school life, college - that’s all over. You _are_ the secret now, it’s in the very pulse of your heartbeat, in every breath you take.

You’re never getting out now. You’re trapped.

It’s like claustrophobia, the feeling that all the metaphorical walls are closing in around you and it smacks the breath right out of your lungs. You can never go back, you can never be that innocent girl who, sure, knew about magic and monsters but didn’t really _live_ in that world, ever again. You were going to get out, you were going to get a real job or apply to grad school or follow Natalie to LA, you were going to do so many things and now you never will.

Maybe you were deluded to think you ever could. Maybe you were living in denial, maybe you were never really going to get away, maybe the coven had chosen you before you were even born, for all you know your life was destined to get to this point, you had no choice, maybe you’ve always been a pawn in a game between heaven and hell and you didn’t even know it.

It’s too much. You and your stupid little human brain can’t handle it, you can _feel_ it, your entire mental concept of reality collapsing.  
_Help,_ you think wildly. _Help me, help me, help me_ -

You hear a strange sound, faint like a whisper but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and then there’s a man _standing_ in the middle of the room, right in front of you, with eyes that burn and you dive towards Dean but he catches you and pulls you up before you can hide behind him, fear closing around you like a vice but Dean’s all calm, casually slinging one arm around your shoulders as he leans back.

“Hey, what’s up Cass. Cass, Caylee, Caylee, Cass, hey, ain’t that a tongue twister.” 

You stare at the strange man, a memory floating to the surface, Dean, talking about someone named Cass, someone who was missing in action, but men don’t pop into existence out of nowhere and he can’t be a demon so -

“I was under the assumption that you required my immediate assistance,“ the angel says, and tilts his head in your direction. “I believe I may have misinterpreted.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Huh?”

“I heard her calling out for help, naturally I assumed you were both in danger. I can see I was incorrect. If you’ll pardon me I have more urgent matters that require my attention.”

And then he vanishes.

You’re stunned into total stillness, trying to process what you just saw, and then Dean doubles over, laughing as he grins right at you. “You prayed for help because you were having an _existential crises?”_

You blink, feeling very strange, like maybe this is all part of the high, a drug induced hallucination, except that Dean saw him too. “I guess so.”

“Wow,” he chuckles. “That’s fantastic. Can’t say I’ve seen that particular reaction before.”

You’re still staring at the place where the angel stood. “What?”

“Look, I’ve watched a lot of people go through an existential crisis when they find out about this stuff. Seriously, I don’t know how many people I’ve watched hyperventilate into paper bags, but I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

“It’s not funny,” you whine. “You broke my brain.”

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry, I’m just teasing you.” He pulls you closer to him and you curl up against his side; he gives your shoulder a little squeeze and kisses the top of your head. “You okay?” 

“I’m still alive.” 

“Very funny.”

You tilt your head back against his shoulder. “I’m so tired. Existential crisis are exhausting.”

Dean tilts his head sideways towards yours. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

You blink up at him. “Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“I know it’s probably not, but…” You choke up and look up at the ceiling. “Will you tell me it’s going to be okay anyway? Even if you don’t really mean it, I just need to hear someone say it.”

He pulls his arm away and turns you around on the couch so you’re facing him. You blink rapidly, trying not to cry, but Dean cups the side of your face in one of his hands and you look at him through a sheen of tears.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he says, steady and confident, like he really means it. “You’re going to be okay.”

You exhale and shut your eyes as tears slip down your face. “Okay.”

His thumb runs across your face, under your eyes and down the sides of your nose, collecting teardrops. “How about that movie, huh? Give that brain a break?”

“Yeah, okay.” You press your cheek against his palm and try as hard as you can to believe him, that he means what you asked him to say.

Even if it’s a lie.


	11. care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will someone please let me know if I need to change the ‘implied sexual content’ tag to straight up ‘sexual content’? This chapter kinda got away from me a bit lmao.

You ride out your high bundled up in a blanket on the couch next to one of the deadliest hunters you’ve ever met, if his reputation is even close to being accurate (and you suspect that it is), his arm around your shoulders and your head on his chest, binge watching random movies with plots too complex for you to follow. Dean periodically gives you sips of water and eventually, after much coaxing, apple slices, which he carves one by one with a knife, every motion smooth and fluid, he doesn’t even look down to watch himself as he does it, that’s how easy it is for him.

He hands them to you one at a time, so thin you hardly have to do more than suck on them until they go soft and easy to swallow. He doesn’t say anything to you but you don’t really need him to, you know you fucked up and he can’t even act mad at you right now because without Sam he’s the only one you have and Dean might be cutting you off cold turkey but he’s also being very quietly sweet to you and you don’t want to mess things up more than you already have by saying the wrong thing.

After you finish your third movie of the day he heats up some disgusting frozen thing for dinner and brings it over to the couch with two forks. You try to take a bite but gag, recoiling and covering your mouth with your hand. 

“It’s the… it’s the meat, I think,” you choke out, curling into yourself, the fork falling to the coffee table with a clatter.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and before you can really register it he’s picking up his food and stalking out of the room.

You stay where you are, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, blinking tears out of your eyes, and wait for him to come back. When he does he’s carrying two plates with pb&j’s on them and a side of pretzels, like you’re five years old.

“Here.” He hands one of the plates to you and you take it automatically.

“You didn’t have to,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, leaning forward to hit _play_ on the movie you're watching. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay”, you reply, because you don’t want to argue, even though it feels like a pretty big fucking deal to you.

It’s still hard to eat but at least the smell doesn’t make you sick. You suck on each pretzel until it dissolves, nibble on the crusts on your sandwich. Next to you Dean’s already halfway done and on his second beer of the night, slouched back with his plate resting on his thigh. You glance up at him, pick at your food, look away. 

“What?” he asks.

“Can I have a drink?”

He gives you an incredulous look. “No!”

“What about tomorrow?” you push, because you will not be able to survive the next twenty-four hours dead sober, you’ll die, you’re sure of it. And you’re still kinda fucked up right now so it seems like the right time to ask, before all your bravado wears off.

“I dunno, ask me tomorrow,” he mutters. 

“Is Sam coming back tomorrow?”

“Yup.”

“Are you… are you gonna tell him?”

Dean tilts his head back for a drink and you stare at his exposed throat as he swallows. “Don’t see what there is to tell him.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, relieved.

He shrugs again. “Don’t worry about it.”

*

You don’t even go through the pretense of pretending you’re sleeping in your room that night, you change into a tank top and those soft grey shorts and tiptoe across the hall where Dean’s waiting in only a pair of faded blue boxers. You feel soft and fuzzy, not really stoned but not sober either, some in-between state. He reaches for you and puts one warm hand around your shoulder, leads you to his bed and flips back the comforter.

You crawl onto the mattress and stretch out on your left side, watching him as he crosses the room to shut his door and turn the light out. He gets into bed and lays down on his back next to you, close enough for you to feel the heat coming off his skin.

“You warm enough?” he asks.

“Mhmm.” You blink heavily, you’ll probably feel like shit in the morning but right now  
you feel good, warm and heavy and sleepy.

“Feel okay?”

“Yeah,” you sigh out. 

“You sure?”

“Stop worrying about me, I’m okay.”

“I just need to know if it’s safe to let you go to sleep,” he grumbles.

You yawn. “It’s been hours, I think I’m out of the danger zone.”

“Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again,” he says sharply. “Not cool.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I won’t.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay.”

He turns his head to the side a little. “You tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Wake me up if you start feeling weird or anything, okay?”

You let your eyes drift shut. “‘Kay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Shh. I’m sleeping.”

He snorts. “Okay. G’night.”

“Night, Dean.”

*

You wake up warm all over, a firm chest solid under your cheek, sturdy arms wrapped around your back. You blink and reach up to rub your eyes; Dean sighs sleepily and then stiffens, your body rolling a little more firmly onto your left side as he fully wakes up. You blink again and open your eyes, orienting yourself - you’re snuggled up next to Dean, who’s shifted a little over onto his side so he’s facing you. Your legs are all tangled up and his right arm is still wedged under your torso, his hand splayed low on your back.

You swallow, he’s staring at you with an intensity that makes you go hot all over, and it hits you again, how much that part of you, the raw physical part of you, connects to him, how when he looks at you like this you can’t even move, caught in his eyes, your heart beating like a frightened rabbit.

“Hey,” he says, low and soft.

“Hi,” you whisper back.

His hand comes up to cup your bare shoulder and you sigh at the touch. “How’re you feeling?” he asks.

You slide your foot up his calf. “Okay.”

His thumb stretches up inside your shirt, where your collar bone connects to your shoulder. “You sure?”

You arch your back, just a little, and swallow back a groan at the firm press of his hand there, just above your ass. “Yeah.”

Your voice comes out high and breathy and you go still, so afraid of ruining this, the energy humming between your bodies, heat in your veins and Dean watching you so carefully, but after a moment he just exhales and relaxes into you, and it’s like watching a wall go down that you didn’t even know was there, the hand on your shoulder comes down to your right hip and he grips it, pulls you into him so the front of his body is plastered to yours.

You stare at his face, so close to yours you could kiss but you’re too distracted by the way he’s looking at you, pure unmistakable desire reflecting back at you and it makes a shiver run up your spine. The hand on your hip tightens and you bite back a groan as he dips his thumb under the crest of bone, heat throbbing between your legs. You feel a little lightheaded, your body held tightly to his and arousal pulsing through you and you don’t really understand what’s happening right now but you don’t want it to stop, you want to stay here in Dean’s bed and lose yourself in him, in his body, be in a place where all you feel is warm and heavy with lust.

You reach out slowly and trace the muscles of his back, trip your fingers down his spine, slide them under the waistband of his boxers and start exploring. He groans and shifts forward, hips pressing into yours, making you gasp and clutch into him.

Dean groans. “Is this” -

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good,” you pant out. 

He slides his hand under your shirt, the muscles in your abdomen jumping under his touch. “You sure?”

You manage to get your right leg hooked over his a little, trying to get him to give you some kind of real contact. “Fuck yeah.”

He ducks his face into your neck, laughing, and it makes you smile a little, the idea that you can make him laugh. He kisses your throat then and you moan, heading falling back. Dean sucks on your earlobe, the hand on your stomach stroking low, just above the waistband of your underwear. You grab at his shoulders, breathless, lost to the heat between your bodies, the rushing in your skull, the pressure of his mouth kissing under your jaw.

He pushes you down against the mattress a little so you roll onto your back and he hovers over you as you let your legs fall open to the sides. He brings his head down and you don’t kiss but he gives you a soft look and drapes his body over yours, holding himself up by his forearms.

You tilt your head back a little so you can look up at him and you melt against the mattress, your hands sliding up his back. He brings one hand down to your thigh and he looks at you as he runs his hand up and down the inside of your leg, catching every hitching gasp and whimper that comes out of your mouth with the brush of his lips over yours.

You slide one hand up into his hair and he makes this little stuttered sound and you’re overwhelmed with pride suddenly, at your own power, but then he squeezes your thigh and you moan, your stomach clenching.

“Please, you whisper, without thinking, and Dean’s eyes go dark.

He drops his hips against yours, not too much pressure but enough for you to gasp and squirm and rub against him. He lets go of your thigh and cups your cheek, looking into your eyes as he slowly rolls his hips against yours. You shudder and look up at him helplessly, silently begging for more and he does it again, eyes locked on you and it’s so intense your chest feels tight, it’s like nothing in the world exists right now except you and him and the tight little spiral of heat blooming between your legs.

There’s no rush, he’s impressively self-controlled, slow rhythmic rolls of his body that make you shiver and moan and clutch at him. You’re hot all over, you pant for breath and arch your back, giving Dean the perfect opportunity to push your shirt up and slide his hand under your bare back. 

The reminder that you’re still even wearing clothes is a bit of a shock, maybe it’s because you were mostly naked the first time you met  
Dean, or that he’s been taking care of your body every day since, but you’re totally comfortable, it feels right, for his hands to be all over your naked skin, coaxing every reaction out of you, instinctively seeming to know what will make you gasp and hold him closer and swallow back desperate pleas for more.

You think you could do this all day, roll around in his bed and just touch each other, block out reality with physical pleasure, but you’re already close, a little panicked and you writhe against him as he watches you lose control, struggling to breathe.

“Um,” you gasp out.” “I’m… Dean, I’m… if you… I think I’m gonna...”

He _growls_ and ducks his head, his cheek pressed to yours and his hands hold you down on the bed as he grinds against you and you cry out -

There’s a loud ringing noise and you both freeze like you’ve been caught doing something terribly wrong and then Dean rolls off of you, swearing under his breath, and retrieves his phone from a pair of jeans lying on the floor.

“What?” he snaps.

You curl into yourself, reeling, reality flooding back in so fast you feel sick. You’re vaguely aware of Dean talking to someone but all you can do is lie there in shock, astounded at yourself, at your absolute brazenness, at how close you came to sleeping with the only person who’s keeping you going, at how fast you were willing to get that close to him, risk blowing everything up for a little physical affection.

Jesus, you’ve got some fucking issues. You can practically hear Natalie teasing you, _wow Caylee, you went straight for the dry humping without even kissing the dude first, how desperate were you?_

“Hey, Caylee?” Dean’s standing by the edge of the bed, hair sticking up a little from you running your hands through it.

“Yeah,” you croak, spiraling into self-hatred, at how pathetic you are, throwing yourself at him like this.

You aren’t the person you used to be, you can’t casually sleep with him and expect not to feel anything when he’s the reason you’re alive, he’s the only person you feel some kind of genuine connection with who isn’t dead or gone. God knows what Natalie thinks happened to you, if she even cares anymore. Maybe she hates you, thinks you blew her off without even a hug goodbye. It's better this way for her anyway, you tell yourself. A clean break. 

“That was Sam, he’s on his way back,” Dean says, looking everywhere but you. “He should be here by tonight.”

“Okay.” You stare up at the ceiling, fighting a slow pounding thump in your temples at the idea of having to spend all day around Dean, with nothing to do and no pills to make the hours pass quicker. 

“You alright?”

You sit up and swing your legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah. Can we make coffee?”

“Actually we’re running low on some stuff, I wanted to do a supply run.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Go get dressed.”

You lift your head to look at him. “I’m coming with you?”

“I’m not leaving you here by yourself.”

“Okay.” You rise slowly from the bed and glance sideways at him, Dean’s resolutely not looking at you and all you can think is, today is going to be hell.

You go change into denim shorts, rip the tags off a loose fitting navy tank top and yank it over your head. It’s a little cropped, your bandage peels out past the hem but you’re too tired to care. You jam your feet into your black slip on sneakers and grab your bag, stick your phone in it and lean out into the hallway. When you don’t see Dean anywhere you sneak off to use the bathroom. You brush your teeth and wash your face too, put on some tinted moisturizer and concealer so you don’t look so pale and sick, apply a light layer of mascara and comb your fingers through your hair so it looks artfully messy and not frizzy. You take a deep breath, ignoring the way your hands are shaking slightly, and go look for Dean.

You find him in the kitchen, taking stock of the mostly empty cabinets, changed into jeans and another plaid flannel over a tee shirt. “I’m ready,” you say, and he twists over his shoulder and nods at you.

You follow him through the bunker to the garage, weave your way past all sorts of cars until you spot the Impala and vaguely wonder what Sam took. It’s hard for you to imagine living like this all the time, so transient, thinking of grocery shopping as a supply run. You get into the passenger seat and pull your door shut, buckle your seat belt and lean your head back, trying to ignore the steady pound in your head, you need some caffeine.

Dean gets in and starts the car, somehow manages to pull the car outside without hitting anything and turns onto the main road, dirt under the tires as you watch trees fly by the window.

A phone beeps, a little chirp that cuts through the music blasting through the speakers. Dean digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone but it isn’t ringing, he makes an annoyed sound and puts it back, pops open the console to reveal four other cell phones.

“Can you” - the car jerks as he looks down and then back at the road. “Gimme whichever one’s” -

The phone chirps again but all the phones nestled together in the console are dark. “It isn’t any of them,” you tell him.

Dean cuts the wheel and pulls the car over to the shoulder, parks. “Where’s your phone?”

You both stare down at the floor where your bag sits by your feet. You reach down slowly, like your expect it to bite you, and pick up your bag. You pull your phone out and the screen is lit up, you have four G service, six missed phone calls, two voicemails, and an insane amount of missed texts from Natalie.

You stare at your phone, astounded, feeling like one of those astronauts in a space movie, the ones where they get stranded and go crazy without human contact, and then right before they give up all hope a voice transmits from Earth. It’s the first time your phone has had both power and cell service, all these messages have been floating through the ether this whole time and you had no idea, until now.

You unlock your phone, your heart rate rising, feeling like you might throw up from the adrenaline rush that is seeing her name on the screen. You open up your text thread and scroll up to the first missed text she sent, aware that’s Dean’s looking over your shoulder as you begin to read:

_Friday 11:02am_  
_Just parked, are you here?_

_11:04am_  
_Jesus Christ it’s hot AF out_

_11:08am_  
_Bitch where are you?_

_11:19am_  
_I can’t believe you’re going to be late to your own graduation_

_11:29am_  
_Seriously, we’re about to start, where are you?_

_3:30pm_  
_CALL ME_

_3:52pm_  
_This isn’t funny Caylee, I’m getting scared_

_5:47pm_  
_I can’t believe I’m going to be late to my own graduation dinner because I have to drive by your house to make sure you’re still alive_

_6:03pm_  
_I’m outside, if you’re home PLEASE answer_

_6:14pm_  
_Your neighbor across the street says he saw your mom leave this morning and she hasn’t come back_

_6:20pm_  
_Are you in trouble?_

_6:28pm_  
_Just tell me you’re okay_

_9:55pm_  
_If I don’t hear from you by the morning I’m going to the police_

_Saturday 2:03am_  
_I love you, wherever you are_

_9:15am_  
_WTF the cops said your house was broken into?? Your neighbor saw some guy go out the window and called it in this is so messed up??!_

_9:18am_  
_I gotta say I’m not very impressed with these guys_

_9:21am_  
_No one is taking me seriously_

_9:23am_  
_They didn’t even go into your house cus the door was still locked, they just made an incident report_

_9:30am_  
_I don’t know what to do_

_12:46pm_  
_There was a fire at one of the community center buildings last night. Didn’t your mom work there? The one with the garden?_

_12:53pm_  
_Caylee, I’m freaking out. A lot of people died_

_3:40pm_  
_Oh my god. Caylee. Oh god_

_3:42pm_  
_FUCK_

“Okay, give me that.” Dean pries your phone out of your grip.

“No, Dean,” you start, but he already has it tucked away in his pocket.

“I’ll give it back when we get to the bunker,” he mutters, and pulls back onto the road.

You kick off your shoes so you can put your feet up on the seat and start to cry, slow and quiet, wrapping your arms around your knees as you stare out the window through a blur of tears. You know why he took your phone, he thinks you’re going to snap and call her and he isn’t wrong, you miss Natalie so badly you feel it like a physical pain, sick at the idea that she spent graduation day afraid for you, went looking for you instead of celebrating, what should’ve been the best day of her life was overshadowed by you and your fucked up life, you ruined it.

“Hey.” Dean reaches out towards you and you duck away from his hand, curl up against the door and cover your head with your arms.

“Don’t,” you grit out. 

He sighs. “Are you gonna be okay?”

“Can you just drive?” you snap, and press your forehead to your knees.

“Shit,” he mutters, but he doesn’t try to comfort you again so you shake in your seat and try to pull yourself together.

He takes you to a little deli with terrible fluorescent lighting that makes your headache instantly feel worse. You wipe your eyes with the edge of your hand and take the large cup of coffee Dean buys for you from the coffee stand just inside the entrance, you pour in a little milk and stir in two brown sugar packets, snap the lid back on and take a sip. You lean against the wall and clutch your cup, watching Dean buy two muffins and tuck the paper bag under his arm. He picks up his coffee, grabs a cart and makes his way over to you.

“C’mon,” he says. “You with me?”

You blink hazily at him and reach up to wrap your free hand around his arm. “Yeah.”

He drags you around the store tossing things into the cart at random: a jar of peanut butter, bread, deli meat, cereal, pasta sauce, mustard, microwave popcorn, frozen chicken strips, rice, oatmeal, a handle of whisky, chocolate chip cookies.

“Anything you want?” he asks, grabbing a carton of milk.

You can’t think of anything. “Not really.”

“You sure?”

You close your eyes and lean against a wall of cracker boxes. “I don’t fucking care.”

“Christ,” he mutters. 

You shrug, thinking about all those unread text messages sitting on your phone right now, in his pocket. “Just being honest.”

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t eat.”

You snort. “Before or after you get scurvy?”

Dean glowers but he snags a mesh bag of clementines and a few bananas and tosses them into the cart. “Any other comments?”

“I want my fucking phone back.”

“Could you cool it with the language, we’re in a goddamn grocery store,” he hisses. “I get it, you think I’m a dick. Well, get in line princess, you sure as hell aren’t the first chick I’ve pissed off and you won’t be the last so get over it.”

“You’re infuriating, you know that right?” you respond, picking out a container of strawberries and dropping them into the cart. “I want these.”

He throws his arm up towards the ceiling. “Oh, okay!”

“Look, you aren’t my dad, you aren’t my brother, and you aren’t my boyfriend, I’m not really a fan of being told what to do and being treated like a child, okay?”

“Since when is trying to keep you alive treating you like a child?” Something flares behind his eyes. “If you’ve got issues with authority that’s your own problem. I’m just doing my job.”

“That’s right,” you spit back. “I’m just a job. So what do you fucking care?”

He clenches his jaw and that’s the end of that, he doesn’t talk to you the whole way back to the bunker. You feel awful the entire drive back, mentally spinning in circles, wondering why you can’t keep yourself under control, why you always have to take your shit out on him when all he’s doing is trying to keep you safe.

When he parks in the giant garage-hanger-thingy you trudge inside the bunker after him, ready to lie down on the floor of your room and cry for a few hours or until you don’t feel so bad anymore but Dean catches you by the arm in the hallway before you can get away.

“Where the hell are you going?” he asks, dropping the shopping bags right there onto the floor so he can hold you by the wrists.

You stare down at his fingers wrapped around you, feeling like you might fall suddenly, your knees going weak. “What are you doing?”

His eyes flash. “Let’s just say I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

You’re so tired and his hands are around your wrists and you remember the heat of waking up in his arms, how good you felt like that, with him, and the hot humiliation that followed. You know how bad of an idea it is, to let yourself get so close to him, but it’s already too late, you don’t know how to breathe without him, nothing makes sense to you anymore except for those fleeting moments where he’s staring down at you and you feel like he really sees you, cares about you as more than just another broken girl who needs his help.

“Do you do this a lot?” you ask carefully. “Get close to people you work with?”

“No,” he says quietly. “But… sometimes people get under your skin.”

You nod, because you know exactly what he means. “Yeah.”

He slides his hands up to wrap around the back of your neck and you go still, every nerve in your body going electric, looking up at him and god, he really is gorgeous, you can’t believe this is your life right now. “Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

“Would you quit being so stubborn and just let me take care of you,” he says, almost like he’s pleading, and you curl into him, hiding your face in his shoulder as you wrap your arms tightly around his back and cling to him, letting out a soft cry at the familiar relief of being back in his arms, safe, held, cared for.

“Hey, okay,” he murmurs, stroking one hand through your hair. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

You nod and clutch his shirt in your hands and Dean just holds you, his fingers idly running through your hair as the two of you stand in the hallway, quiet except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft words he whispers into the crown of your head.


	12. touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the sexual content tag to be more accurate because it turns out I’m incapable of writing up to the line of smut and not throw myself headfirst over the edge.

Sam comes back that night with a pizza and a six pack of beer. You and Dean are sitting on the couch when he comes in, binge watching a cheesy crime procedural on Dean’s laptop, Dean correctly guessing who did it before the detectives solve the crime each time.

Sam gives you guys a tired wave and sets everything down on the coffee table next to Dean’s laptop, and collapses into an armchair. Dean stands up to get a beer and hands one to Sam before opening one for himself. You’re drinking a cup of orange juice with exactly two shots of vodka in it, mixed by Dean twenty minutes ago with instructions to _enjoy it cus this is all you’re getting tonight_. You aren’t mad about it, it’s enough for you to get a decent buzz and you don’t need that much to make you feel high right now, not with Dean sitting next to you, the memory of his body on top of yours lighting you up from the inside out.

Dean passes out slices of pizza and napkins, glancing sideways at Sam. “You get it?”

Sam nods, he looks exhausted. “Mhmm.”

Dean doesn’t ask him a follow up and Sam doesn’t elaborate, as much as you’re curious you think it’s pointless to ask, they probably wouldn’t tell you the truth anyway. You take the slice of pizza Dean gives you and nibble at the end, pretending not to notice when Dean leans away from you to whisper something to Sam that you can’t hear over the sound of the show.

You curl into yourself, slowly eat your pizza and sip your drink, trying not to think about where Sam was, what he did, what he got, if any of it is related to you. You don’t want to get too comfortable here, you’re afraid of letting yourself forget that this isn’t temporary, that all of this, this part of your life, has an expiration date.

Dean leans his shoulder against yours, his right to your left, and he doesn’t say anything but it feels like he’s talking to you anyway. You don’t look at him but you lean back, give him a little of your weight, his flannel worn and soft against your bare arm. You wonder if it’s obvious, if Sam can tell that there’s something going on between you and Dean. You have no idea how they navigate this, you certainly can’t be only woman one of them has gotten involved with during a case. Sam doesn’t seem to mind either way though, he slouches down in his chair and guzzles down two beers in a row because like every other hunter you’ve ever met the Winchesters seem like they’re probably functional alcoholics.

None of you really talk, Sam looks half asleep already and Dean’s working on his beer, stretched out on the couch in a way that looks relaxed but you can feel the tension in his body, feel the tight way that he inhales, and wonder if he’s distracted by it too, the buzz of heat between your bodies. You stop eating after your first slice and let the guys devour the pizza, you feel too keyed up, not drunk but definitely tipsy, completely occupied with watching Dean’s lips wrap around the mouth of his beer bottle out of the corner of your eye.

Sam announces that he’s going to bed after he finishes his third beer. He says goodnight and drags himself out of the room, leaving you alone with Dean on the couch and it isn’t even that late, you realize, Sam must have been up early to drive back here. You and Dean have this awkward moment where you’re both sitting there, without anyone to perform for, pretending to watch the show and ignoring the way the sides of your bodies are pressed together.

You swallow back the rest of your drink and lean over him a little to put your empty cup on the coffee table. Instead of sitting back down next to Dean you swing your right leg over so you’re hovering over his lap; he quickly sets his beer bottle on the floor so he doesn’t spill, your knees pressing against his hips to keep your balance.

“Hey.” He raises an eyebrow at you but he looks pretty pleased overall and you’re drunk with power suddenly, that he wants this, your body, one of the only things you have left to give, even if it’s broken into pieces now.

“Hey,” you reply, your hands skimming his shoulders, his chest, your heart beating loudly in anticipation.

“Whatcha doing?”

You shrug, faux-casual. “Just saying hi.”

“Is that right?” He spreads his hands over your bare thighs, you’re still wearing denim cutoffs and the tank top you wore to the store this morning and it makes you shudder, the idea of his hands on all your exposed skin.

“Dean,” you breathe, looping your arms around his neck and like this you’re almost the same height.

His hands slide up to curl around your hips. “What’re you doing?” 

You lick your bottom lip. “You know what I’m doing.”

He leans down a little, lips so close to yours. “You sure this is what you want?”

“I want to feel good,” you whisper, and roll your hips into him just to make it clear. “Please. I just… I just want it to stop hurting. Just for a little while. Do you know what I mean?”

You watch him swallow, clench his jaw. “That’s what you want, huh?”

You trail your fingers across the back of his neck, the whorls of his ears, the sides of his jaw, wondering if you inadvertently hurt his feelings, like he doesn’t know how gorgeous he is, how lucky you are to have him, even if the cost is more than you would have willingly paid, if you’d had a choice in the matter.

“If I had met you in a bar I would’ve been all over you so fast you wouldn’t have known what hit you,” you confess.

He doesn’t take the bait, not exactly, but he does give you a salacious smile, like he’s thinking of all the things he’d like to do if he met _you_ at a bar. “Oh yeah?”

You sigh and card your hands through his hair. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”

He gives you a look that you think might be deceptively casual, like maybe he cares a hell of a lot more than he’s been leading on. “Can you blame me? You’ve been giving me emotional whiplash for days.”

Oh. That’s… totally fair, actually.

Still, it makes you feel terribly, achingly vulnerable to look him in the eye and tell him what you want, makes it so much more than a simple hookup but you knew better than that, you mentally chide yourself, nothing between you and Dean could ever be simple like that, considering your circumstances.

So you sit up in his lap as tall as you can without pulling on your stitches and look him in the eyes. “Dean Winchester, would you please make out with me?”

He grits his jaw, hands firm on your hips. “Yeah, what the hell. Okay,” he agrees in a low teasing voice, just like you knew he would.

He lifts one hand to cup your jaw as he leans in to kiss you. You melt into him, shivering at the rush of finally having his lips on yours. He’s firm but gentle, lips brushing against yours as you slide your fingers into his hair. His thumb brushes across your cheek, coaxing your mouth open so he can flick his tongue against yours. 

You’re so warm, held in strong hands, and you moan into his mouth, already a little drunk on him. You want to taste him all over, drag his hands across your body, live in this place where there's nothing but Dean and his hands and his voice and his body, where your every thought is vapor, all your fears and trauma safety locked away for later, electrified by lips against your own distracting you from everything but how good he feels.

“Easy,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up your back under your shirt, around your waist, skimming the edges of your bandage. “No sudden movements.”

“I’m okay,” you say breathlessly, and arch up to kiss him again, suck on his bottom lip until he growls and nips at your mouth.

You giggle and he does it again, his hand firm against your back. “Oh, you like that?”

“Oh yeah,” you tease, and Dean catches your bottom lip in his mouth and just _sucks_ , until it feels heavy and swollen. You groan and slide your hands down the buttons of his flannel. “I wanna take this off.”

“So take it off,” he responds gruffly, and cups the back of your head to hold you steady as he kisses your throat.

You gasp, fingers getting stuck on a button as your stomach clenches. You can’t focus like this so you give up on his shirt and let him do it, leaning back as he shrugs out of it. His hands go to the bottom of his tee shirt and when you nod Dean yanks it over his head. You stare at his shoulders, his chest, his abs, lean in to examine his tattoo that matches the one on your neck. You trail your fingers down the segments of his stomach muscles, watching them jump under your touch, and Dean catches your wrists, breathing heavily through his nose.

“Arms up,” he instructs you.

It makes a shiver run through you, you hate it when he tells you what to do but right now you’d do anything he told you to, if it means he’ll keep touching you. You reach your fingers up towards the ceiling and Dean gathers the hem of your shirt and slowly pulls it over your head and tosses it next to him on the couch so you’re sitting in his lap in shorts and a thin cotton bralette. His eyes immediately go to your chest, you sit very still and take a few deep breaths for maximum effect. He touches you with one hand, his thumb rubbing through the fabric as you wriggle around in his lap.

You’re warm everywhere, a pulse between you legs as he crushes you to his chest to kiss again. You clutch onto his shoulders, his bare skin hot against you. You dare rolling your hips and you grin against his mouth when you feel him hard in his jeans. You roll your hips again and he grunts, his hands coming back down to hold your hips and for a moment you think he’s going to stop you but they just settle around you, in for the ride, and you kiss him on the mouth, scrape your teeth against his jaw, hide your face in his neck when you start to pant, dizzy and turned on. 

“Please,” you beg, his skin so hot as you rub your cheek against him. “Dean.”

He yanks down one of your bralette straps using only his teeth. “Please what?”

“Anything,” you moan.

To your disappointment he stops what he’s doing and pulls you up so he can look at you. “Tell me what you want,” he orders, low and gravely.

It makes you go still, the idea that if you ask for what you want he might actually give to it you. You don’t even know what that is, all you know is that right now you feel good and you don’t want it to stop. You trail your hands down his chest, his ribs, tracing out scars and freckled skin, watching his muscles twitch as you dip your hands down towards the waistband of his jeans.

“Well,” you say, trying to remember how to do this, trying to pull up the confidence you used to have. “I do remember you saying something about having magic fingers.”

He looks at you and then Dean laughs, eyes crinkling up at the corners. He slides his hands back down to your thighs and he’s grinning and he’s so beautiful like this it almost makes you cry, the idea of his fingers inside you.

“You want me to make you feel good?” His hands slide up under your shorts and you nod loosely like you’re drunker than you are, muscles tensing under his hands.

“Please,” you whisper, your hands loosely braced against his shoulders. 

“C’mere,” he says softly, and pulls you in to kiss some more, and you get so lost in it that you don’t even realize he’s pulled down your shorts until he’s coaxing you to kick them off.

You balance on your knees over him, only in your bralette and one of those mesh thongs. He cups his hands over your bare ass and you whimper as he pushes your hips into him. He slips his hands under the straps of your thong, his fingers rubbing and squeezing, and you slump forward into him, every muscle in your body trembling.

He curls over you, kissing down the side of your neck as his hands slide around to the inside of your thighs. Your muscles tense and you let your head fall forward, tendrils of heat spiraling up your spine. Every touch of his fingers makes your legs shake, he walks them down to your knees and back up until he finds those little hollows on the insides of your thighs. You look at him but he’s looking down at his hands on you, eyes bright and serious.

He leans his head back against the couch and meets your gaze; he cups his right hand between your legs, smirking, and you curl over, stomach contracting as you roll forward into his palm.

“ _Fuck_ ,” you hiss, his other hand splaying against the small of your back.

He rubs you through the thin fabric of your underwear and you moan, you can’t help yourself, everything in your world has narrowed down to heat and pressure and it feels so good, to not be afraid, to not hurt. 

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s only half aware he’s talking out loud. “C’mon.”

You slide your hands up to clutch onto the back of his neck, grinding down into his hand but it’s not enough, you groan and whimper and clench your thighs, sweat rolling down your back. You feel half delirious, drunk on him, his smell and the heat of his skin and the palm of his hand working against you.

“More,” you slur out. “Oh _god_ , please, _please_.”

“Shh, okay, you’re okay.” He kisses your temple, rolls your thong down and puts his hand back where it was.

You let out a dry sob at the feeling of his fingers stroking your skin and you cling to him and cry and shake as he takes you apart.

*

You sleep in his room again, like at this point it’s just an unspoken agreement, you spending the night in his bed. You wake up in the morning on your left side with Dean wrapped around you, his bare chest plastered to your back, the covers kicked off in the early morning heat, or maybe it’s just him, warm skin pressed up against you everywhere. He’s stroking your right hip and it sends a bolt of heat through you, remembering last night, coming on his fingers, hot tears streaming down your cheeks at the release.

“Morning,” he whispers in a scratchy voice.

“Mm,” you sigh, and push your ass back against him.

He chuckles and you feel his lips against your shoulder. “Feisty.”

“I want coffee,” you comment, desperately trying to sound cavelier, like his hand isn’t burning through your hip.

“I’m sure Sam’s already got a pot going.”

It makes you hesitate, remembering that Sam’s back, like maybe what happened yesterday can’t happen again, it makes it too complicated, as if it isn’t plenty complicated already, but then Dean slides his hand down a little, right in the crease of your hip, and you go boneless.

“Okay,” you sigh. 

His hand comes up to stroke your arm. “You want to get up?”

You turn back over your shoulder to look at him and get caught in his eyes. It makes you roll over onto your back, drawn to him like a magnet, and he shifts around you like he can anticipate your every move, so that he’s hovering over you. You spread your legs for him without even thinking about it, laid out under him in only a bralette and a pair of boy shorts. He bends his elbows like he’s doing a push-up over you and looks down at you and you don’t want to speak, to break the beautiful tension between you, giving into the connection between your bodies instead.

“Is that a no?” he asks, amused.

You shake your head and very deliberately blink, knees falling open for him, your hands settling on his biceps. You don’t even know what you want from him, you’re barely half awake, but you know that you want to stay here as long as you can, blocking out the world, the reality of why you’re here in the first place, half naked underneath a hunter.

He lowers himself down all the way and you let out a long contented sigh at the comforting weight of his body against yours, most of his weight in his hands and knees. You wrap your legs around his back and catch him in the cradle of your hips, Dean groans and drops his head against the pillow next to yours. He’s only in a pair of boxer briefs and your stomachs are pressed together, you can feel every breath he takes like it’s one of your own. You trail your fingers up and down his back, swallowing a groan when he rocks into you.

“Okay?” he asks immediately.

You turn your head to the side to look at him and nod but he reaches down and rests his hand against your side, right next to your stitches. It makes you shiver, thinking of all those times you laid here just like this, bleeding, crying, afraid, looking up at him with desperation.

“It doesn’t hurt,” you say quietly. 

He works his jaw, the tip of his nose so close to yours on the pillow. His thumb slides into the dip of your waist, making your stomach flutter.

“When we found you,” he says in a low voice, “you were so cold that at first we thought we were too late.”

Ice runs up your spine, you close your eyes and just hold him, focusing on his hand on your body.

“There was smoke everywhere,” he continues. “We cut you out of that chair, grabbed you and took you right to the car. Ended up driving to the motel with Sam holding you in the backseat to keep you from bleeding out.”

Your throat aches with unshed tears. “Sam said I lost a lot of blood.”

“You did.” Your eyes are still closed, you startle a little when his lips press against your eyelids.

“Dean,” you whisper.

“And then you woke up,” he whispers. “You woke up on that table and I knew you’d be okay, because anyone who could survive was that had to be tough. You’re strong. You’re so strong.”

“I’m not,” you start to cry. “I’m not. I’m no one, I’m nothing, I’m not” -

“Hey, hey, stop it.” He cups your cheek and you duck your head, hiding your face in his neck. 

Dean shifts onto his side and you roll with him, your arms wrapped tightly around his back. “I don’t want to die,” you confess, whispering the words into his skin. “I never wanted that, I just… I just wanted it to stop hurting so much.”

“I know,” he whispers, and cups the back of your head. “I know sweetheart.”


	13. legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to add one more chapter because I still can’t get an outline right on the first try. Like, ever.

After you have enough coffee to really wake up and eat breakfast with Sam and Dean (toast and scrambled eggs, eaten while brushing your feet against Dean’s under the table) you go to the bathroom to take a shower. You stand under the hot water for awhile, just thinking about it - Dean, his hands on your body, the idea of kissing him again, where this can possibly go. In the back of your head you know that this is only a distraction, something to keep your mind occupied so you don’t have to think about what’s going to happen to you, the demon out there who wants you dead, but if you let yourself think about that you’ll be paralyzed again, the girl screaming into the floor.

When you get out of the shower you wring your wet hair out over the sink, change into a pair of shorts and pull a clean tank top over your bralette. You go off to look for Dean so he can clean your stitches and find him alone in the room with the long table, copying something from a huge old looking book onto a sheet of blank paper.

“Hey,” you call out. “Where’s Sam?”

Dean comes around the table to you and settles his hands over your shoulders. “Out doing something.”

You tilt your head straight back to look up at him. “Doing what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

You roll your eyes. “You never tell me anything.”

He taps your forehead playfully. “I tell you everything you need to know.”

“So when’s he coming back?”

“Soon. C’mon, let’s go clean these stitches.”

You let him lead you to the bathroom, you pull your shirt off and stand by the sink while Dean rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands, gets out the first aid box and has you stand in front of him against the sink. 

“I gotta…” He gestures to the fly of your shorts.

“Okay,” you say evenly.

He cocks an eyebrow at you and when you don’t move he shakes his head and brings his hands to the waistband of your shorts. You suck in a breath, bracing your hands against the sink as he undoes the button and drags the zipper down. He tugs your shorts down until the entire bandage is exposed and you have to swallow a moan when he spreads his left hand over your waist to hold you still as he starts to peel the bandage off.

It feels like foreplay, his hands running the washcloth gently over your skin, patting it dry, carefully applying a fresh bandage. By the time he’s finished your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and it’s taking everything in you to hold still. Dean puts the first aid kit away and comes back to stand between your legs, those big hands coming up to trace the edges of your bandage.

“It’s healing good,” he says quietly. “We should be able to take the stitches out soon.”

“Really?”

He rubs his thumbs against your stomach and it makes you shiver. “Mhmm.”

“Will it hurt?”

Dean smiles as he leans in. “No.”

You settle your hands over his hips as he kisses you, melting against him as his lips caress your own. His hands come underneath your thighs and you gasp as he picks you up and sets you on the edge of the sink. You wrap your legs around him to pull him closer, gripping the edges of his shirt so you don’t lose your balance. Your breathing sounds absurdly loud in the small space, little gasps and moans as you arch your back, his arms coming around you so you don’t smack into the faucet.

Your shirt is still off and you feel hot everywhere his skin touches yours, your back cradled in the crook of his right arm, his left hand cupped over the back of your head. You slip your hands under the hem of his shirt so you can feel him, trying to pull your body into him, until you’re practically lying down on the sink, legs wrapped around him, gasping into his mouth as you arch desperately against him.

You don’t think about what you’re doing. You don’t have to, because it’s simple - you’ve locked the real world on the other side of that door, and in this small room there are no demons or dead bodies, just you and him and the sound of your breath.

He picks you up and spins you around, making you gasp as he presses you against the wall. You wrap your legs around his waist and moan when he grinds into you, the weight of his body keeping you pinned against the wall. You’re hot everywhere, you hold him by the shoulders as he slides one hand under your wet hair to cup the back of your neck. He leans down so his forehead is against yours and you pant harshly as you move against him, trying to get some friction. He rolls his hips against you and you let out a harsh cry, you can’t really move like this except to cling as hard to him as you can and it’s a strange relief, to be forced to surrender, let him take you where he wants you to go, and it’s Dean, so you can, because Dean only ever makes things better, so you drop your head to his shoulder and give in, let it rush over you when he slips one hand down your stomach and shoves it inside your underwear, methodically moving it against you until you’re coming in dry sobs, clutching fistfulls of his shirt until it’s over.

He’s all muscle and sweat against the pulse of your body, you untangle your legs from him and drop, intentionally drag your chest down his until you’re on your knees in front of him.

Dean looks down at you like you’re a Christmas present, a slice of pie and a blessing all rolled into one. “You know you don’t have to do this, right sweetheart?”

You don’t know if he’s trying to give you an out but if he is, you don’t need it. You feel so good right now; you want to stay here, be wherever you don’t have to think about anything bad, and here on the floor, your hands coming up to the fly of his jeans, all you’re thinking about is how he’ll feel in your mouth.

You shake your hair away from your face and reach for his belt buckle. “I want to.”

He groans as he reaches down to snake his belt out of the loops and unzip his jeans. “Well, okay then. If you _want_ to.”

You lick your lips on purpose, just for show. “You gonna shut up and let me concentrate?”

He chuckles and shoves his jeans down over his hips. “Yes ma'am.”

You yank down his boxer briefs, settle your hands over his hips, wrap your lips around him, and then all that exists for you is the warm weight of him in your mouth, his hands in your hair, the sound of his voice groaning and calling you _darlin’_ , _sweetheart_ , _beautiful,_ until he’s making sounds that are as soft and meaningless to you as the white static fuzz of your mind.

*

Sam’s back by lunch, the three of you eat takeout that he brought back to the bunker (salads for you and Sam and some kind of sandwich for Dean that’s slathered in barbecue sauce). When you’re finished Dean sidles up next to you at the sink where you’re washing your hands and leans against the counter.

“Go pack up your stuff,” he says quietly. “We’re heading out.”

You turn the water off and dry your hands mechanically. If he’s asking you to pack your things it’s because you aren’t coming back here. “Where are we going?”

“Vegas.”

“Vegas,” you repeat stupidly.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Because.”

“Because why?” you push.

“Dean,” Sam interjects.

“What?” Dean snaps.

“She has a right to know,” Sam says softly.

“Know what?” you ask.

“We can talk about it in the car,” Dean mutters. “Go pack.”

“No,” you retort.

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Not until you tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Oh, you really want to know?” Dean narrows his eyes at you. “Alright, come on, let’s get this over with then.”

You and Sam follow him out of the kitchen to the library, you sink into a chair next to Sam but Dean stays standing, arms folded over his chest.

“Do you want me to start?” Sam asks, but Dean shakes his head, Sam stretches out in his chair and shoots you a look that makes your stomach flip.

“Alright, here's the deal,” Dean says. “So, you know how the original plan was for the demon to possess you? But it didn’t work, because of that tattoo. So it knows that’s not an option now.”

“I know,” you say slowly, not sure where he’s going with this. “That’s why it wants to kill me.”

“It’s not that simple,” Dean says. “It wanted you for your magic. It can’t possess you to use it, which means it would need to get it another way.”

“Like killing me?”

“It’s in your blood,” Sam says softly. “At least, from what I’ve been able to gather. The root of your power, the ancestral aspect, it’s in your DNA. So if they have your blood, they can try to isolate your power and transfer it into a different body.”

“That’s blood magic,” you state nervously. “Blood magic’s black magic.”

Sam levels his gaze at you. “Yeah.”

Your mouth drops open. “You’ve been talking to witches.”

“We know people,” he confirms vaguely.

“Okay, so, but what does that actually mean?” you asks, trying to keep up. “It can’t possess me but it could - use my blood to get my power?”

“Which could get a lot of people killed,” Dean says gruffly. “That’s what we’re trying to avoid.”

“So we’re going to Vegas so you can kill the demon before it can… do that?”

Something in Dean’s expression darkens. “Not exactly.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. “What do you mean?”

Dean sighs. “Okay. Let's just say, hypothetically, we know someone who can tell the future.”

You can’t help it, you start laughing. “Oh come on.”

He doesn’t seem to be amused. “You don’t believe me?”

“Dean, that’s - that’s impossible.”

He cocks his head. “Why?”

“Because no one can tell the future with one hundred percent certainty. Timelines are always shifting, you never know the outcome of anything until it actually happens, it's one thing to be able to know probabilities but no one can actually predict the future completely and if they say they can they’re lying. I mean, I know some psychics are really good but no one gets it one hundred percent of the time. At least, no one I’ve ever met.”

Dean and Sam are both staring at you. “What?” you ask self-consciously. “I grew up around this stuff too, remember?”

Dean shakes his head. “Okay, let’s go with probabilities, that works. Let’s just say my friend” -

“Your friend is a psychic?” you ask curiously.

“No,” he says shortly. “She just - lets just say she has access to certain information. Like probabilities.”

“Okay,” you say cautiously. “Is it fair to assume that’s how you know the demon is in Vegas?”

“Will be,” Dean corrects. “But yeah. And if we go now, this is the best chance of us taking it out.”

You swallow back a wave of nausea. “What happens if it doesn’t work?”

Sam and Dean fall silent. You clutch the arms of your chair, a little dizzy. “Oh,” you whisper. “Right.”

“There’s more,” Dean says. 

“Great,” you sigh. “What?”

Dean looks at Sam before coming a little closer to you. “We aren’t the ones that are going to kill it.”

You stare at him. “I don’t understand.”

“Your power,” Sam says softly. “You can kill it with magic.”

“I don’t know how to _do_ magic!”

“That’s why Sam got you a spell.” Dean walks away and comes back holding a sheet of paper, it looks like what he was working on earlier. It’s a long line of what you think are runes but it’s not like you really know, you were never planning on practicing actual magic, ever.

“What kind of spell is this?” you ask cautiously. “What does it do?”

“It’ll activate your power,” Sam explains. “You don't even necessarily have to memorize it, you could, um, get it…”

“Tattooed,” Dean finishes for him. He picks up your left arm and traces your palm. “I was thinking you could get it done down your arm and then finish over your thumb, you know when you tap your fingers together?”

You nod dumbly, you weren’t aware that he’d seen you do that. “Yeah?”

“That’ll be the trigger.”

You curl your hand into a loose fist, catching his fingers in your palm. “You want me to get a tattoo that’ll trigger my powers into killing the demon?”

Dean shrugs. “In a nutshell.”

You stare at him, and then at Sam, and then you burst into hysterical laughter because really, how else are you supposed to react to this? But after a minute, when both of them just watch you with twin looks of pity on their faces, it starts to hit you, what they’re really asking you to do, and you switch almost seamlessly into high pitched panicked sobs.

“Hey,” Dean starts, bending down in front of you, but you curl up in the chair and press your face into your knees.

“I can’t,” you choke out. “I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” he says firmly.

You peek out at him, your tears making his face blur. “It killed my mother.”

“I know that,” he growls. “And it’ll kill a hell of a lot more people if you don’t kill it first.”

Your face crumples up as you continue to cry. “Why? Why can’t you do it?”

Something dark flashes over his face. “Because apparently the odds of all of us surviving this are way better when it’s you.”

“So I’m supposed to trust some random not-psychic or whatever just because you say so?”

“No, you’re supposed to trust me. And the story is, if Sam or I kill it, something always goes wrong. Bad shit happens. And if we aren’t here, we can’t protect you. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“Do it for me,” you beg, because you can’t, you can’t even handle the idea of being in the same room with the demon again let alone do what he’s asking of you.

“It has to be you, okay?” he spits out. “Something about the magic - the two of you are tied already, it’s…”

“Fate?” you ask incredulously.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he sighs. “You have free will. But you also have access to information, and the information is very clear that the best shot we all have of surviving this is for you to use your magic.”

“Please don’t make me do this,” you beg. “Dean, I don’t think I can do this.”

“Well, you have to,” he says abruptly. “I’m sorry.”

And then he turns around and walks out of the room.

You look wildly at Sam, who twists his mouth to the side and then leans forward to grab one of your hands. “He wouldn’t ask you if he didn’t think you could do it.”

You wipe your eyes with the edge of your free hand. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Sam shrugs. “Just being honest.”

“This isn’t fair,” you whisper. “I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want to do this.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Sometime’s life is a bitch.”

You let out a choked laugh. “Yeah.”

“Look, just for the record, the only reason we’re even doing this is that everyone we, uh, consulted with agreed that this had the best outcome.”

“Do you check your horoscope before you go on hunts, too?” you snap.

Sam just lets out a dry laugh. “The people we talk to are a lot higher up than your average astrologer.”

“I just… I know the way I grew up wasn’t exactly normal, but it wasn't about me, you know. And now, I, I feel like I’m a…”

“A freak?” he asks tightly.

“Yeah, that works,” you mutter.

“You aren’t,” he says softly. “But you are - you got pulled into something pretty big. No one’s saying you gotta like it but that’s just how things are.”

“I guess I’m just used to thinking about myself as no one, you know? In school I always kept my head down, no one wanted to be friends with the weird kid, everyone thought I was like a really hard core pagan I guess,” you say. “And all the kids in the coven never treated me like one of them because I couldn’t do magic. I’ve always been no one.”

“Caylee,” Sam says gently. “You aren’t no one anymore.”

*

The three of you hit the road in the early afternoon. For some reason Sam insists on letting you sit in the passenger seat while Dean scowls next to you, claiming he’d rather have the backseat to himself where he can stretch out, and with Sam’s legs it’s not like you can blame him. You and Dean haven’t talked since he walked out on you earlier, all of your things are packed up in a trash bag in the trunk next to their guns and ropes and containers of salt. You put your sunglasses on and look out the window as Dean drives towards the closest highway, watching fields and trees flick past you.

You feel numb and wired at the same time and this is the first time you really miss those pills, how they made time just melt away, instead of every minute feeling like an agonizing trial to get through. You dig your headphones out of your bag and plug them into your phone, pop your earbuds in and open up a playlist, lean back and try to get lost in the music.

Dean gets onto the highway and Sam falls asleep in the back even though you can hear the distant pound of drums through your headphones, like it’s just muscle memory for him. Dean drives west, chasing the sun, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in time to whatever he’s listening to. You look at billboards for movies you didn’t know had come out, restaurants, shopping centers, radio stations. Eventually you get bored of watching Kansas and watch Dean instead, the way the sun makes his hair light up gold, the lines of the muscles in his arms, the way he drives like it’s as natural to him as breathing.

Dean follows the signs to switch highways towards Oklahoma and you think about asking him if you’re stopping but decide against it. It doesn’t matter, he’s in charge, he’s at work and you’re sitting in his office, you don’t get to make decisions right now anyway, he’s made that very clear. You wonder if it was hard for him to do that, look you in the eye and tell you what he did, if he feels bad, if he thinks you’re all going to die soon.

Dean gets off the highway in Oklahoma City, you pull your earbuds out and look around, at the sunset setting the sky on fire, the skyscraper in the distance as you go down an exit ramp. “Are we stopping for dinner?”

Dean glances down at your arm. “Among other things.”

Your stomach swoops, in your panic at having to come face to face with the demon again you kind of forgot the part about having to get half your arm tattooed. “Oh.”

Dean drives to a part of the city you think could be described as gritty; it’s getting dark out and all you can see is concrete and metal, graffiti tags, the neon flashing lights of 7/11 and McDonalds and CVS, bars and strip clubs and head shops. Dean must know exactly where he’s going because he parallel parks on the street outside a twenty-four hour diner and the three of you get out of the car.

“This way,” he says, and you follow him and Sam down the block to a tattoo and piercing parlor with a _closed_ sign hanging over the glass door.

Dean knocks sharply, three times, and the sign shifts a little before the door unlocks and a guy pushes it open. He looks like a surfer punk kind of guy, young, shaggy blond hair mostly covered by a grey beanie, an oversized black sweatshirt, Vans. His eyes scan the three of you quickly and he steps back to let you inside.

“Caylee, this is Dax,” Dean introduces you.

“Hey,” you say shyly, a little startled that the whole place reeks of sage.

“Nice to meet you, I’m gonna be doing your ink.” He stretches his hand out to shake yours and you notice the tattoos over his knuckles, pagan symbols for north, east, west, and south, and your eyes go instinctively to his wrist, and you sway, stunned, because he has a tattoo there too, script that reads _luctor et emergo._

It’s Latin, it translates to _I struggle and emerge._

Your mother had the same one.

It’s an initiation tattoo, only for the highest ones in a coven, the ones with the most power, capable of real magic, serious magic, dangerous magic.

“You got it?” Dax asks, and Sam holds out the sheet of paper with the spell on it. The tattoo artist looks down at it, at your arm, back at the runes. “Cool, I’m gonna go make a transfer.”

You stare at his back as he disappears into a little office. “Uh, guys? What the hell is an initiated witch doing giving tattoos in Oklahoma City?”

“That’s his story to tell,” Dean says. “We’ve worked together before, we trust him.”

“Okay,” you sigh in resignation. 

Dax comes back and confers with Sam for a minute and ushers you over, you give him your left arm so he can transfer a copy of the spell onto your skin. You go show Dean and he nods with approval so you follow Dax over to his station, perching on a stool while he wipes down everything and opens a new needle.

“I’ve got beer in the fridge,” Dax offers. “We’re gonna be here for a little while.”

Sam gets one for himself and stretches out in one of the leather chairs in the front of the shop but Dean comes over and sits down next to you.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

You shrug. “It’s not like it’s my first one.”

“You got more ink?” Dax asks.

You lift your hair and turn to show him your anti-possession tattoo, and he laughs. “You have the Winchester special!”

Dean snorts. “We are not calling it that.”

Dax shrugs. “Where’s the lie, bro?”

“Yeah, bro,” you tease. 

“Okay, Caylee, I’m ready for you.” Dax calls you over and wipes down your arm before sitting you in the chair. He sets up his tray to your left and sits on a high wheeled stool. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” You offer him a tight smile. 

He nods, and glances back at Dean, who’s sitting a few feet away, before leaning in towards you. “Just FYI, I spelled the ink. It’ll make the magic stronger.”

You stare at him. “Wow, that’s… creative.”

“Yeah, I’m stoked, it took me a few batches to get it just right, I mix all my inks myself.” 

Dean is watching the two of you, not suspiciously exactly, but he must be wondering what you’re talking about, all hunters you’ve met seem to have a natural aversion to magic and you wonder if he’s freaking out just a little bit, at what this guy could do, what you will be able to do, after this.

“So anyway, if you feel a little strange, that’s why,” he continues.

“Strange how?” you ask.

He laughs and snaps on a pair of gloves. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

He has you position your arm palm-up on the arm rest and Dean comes over to sit on a chair to your right as Dax leans over you and starts the tattoo, right next to the crease of your elbow. You don’t look at it, habit maybe, after training yourself to look away all those times Dean worked on you. You do your best to hold still and try to zone out, Sam’s sipping a beer and flipping through a magazine and Dean’s watching the needle move across your skin, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“How’s that feel?” Dax asks, hunched over you, sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

“Fine,” you tell him. “A little intense but it’s not really painful.”

“Cool, cool,” he responds, stops to dab a little ink away, and resumes filling in another rune. “Should kick in soon.”

“What should kick in soon?” Dean snaps.

“I gave your spell a little boost,” Dax says casually, not even stopping. “And I’m not even charging you for it, you’re welcome.”

Next to you Dean is very still. “You did what?”

“The usual, ground down some protective herbs, made the ink specially for her, had a priest bless it, which was _hilarious_ explaining that one by the way.”

“You’re - you’re tattooing her with _magic ink?”_ Dean looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm. 

“How did you think this worked, man?”

“Christ,” Dean mutters, and looks at you. “You good?”

You blink, wondering why Dean suddenly looks sort of _purple_. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Yep.”

“Oh yeah,” Dax chuckles. “She’s good.”

Dean narrows his eyes at you. “You hopped up on magic sauce right now?”

The question makes you laugh hysterically and Dax stops for a moment until you’ve pulled yourself together a little. Dean rolls his eyes and stalks off to grab a beer, comes back to his chair and flops down. Dax hums under his breath as he works and you lean back against the chair, you feel very warm and relaxed and Dean’s a fascinating swirl of color right now, you watch him drink his beer and follow the trails of color with your eyes as he moves.

Dean sighs and moves closer to you; you have to blink a little to try to keep him in focus. “You with me?” he asks in a low voice.

You blink slowly, feeling sorry about before. Deans been so good to you, it must be hell for him, to be a hunter and not be able to do this part for you. “It’s okay Dean.”

He frowns, or you think he’s frowning, but you’re too distracted by the psychedelic sunflowers blooming behind his head to really care. “What is?”

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur. “My mom got me into this. I have to finish it. I get it, it’s a… shit Dax. This shit is for real.”

The tattoo artist laughs. “Just enjoy the ride.”

“Legacy,” Dean says quietly. “Is that what you meant?”

You look up at him, and you don’t see flames in his eyes, or blood, or swords, you don’t see your future, whatever special kind of hell is awaiting you in the city of sin, you don’t see your mother or dead bodies or any of the things you’re so afraid you’ll see when you shut your eyes at night.

You see sunflowers, bursts of light unfurling like petals.


	14. brave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter left after this, we’re almost to the end!

Sam pulls off the highway in Amarillo around one in the morning and drives until he finds a motel so the three of you can crash for a few hours. Dean offers to switch and keep driving but Sam just shoots him a look in the rearview mirror like _yeah, right_ , and you wonder if they don’t normally do this, pull over just to catch some sleep, if they trade off driving and sleeping all the way from job to job.

This time you don’t put up a fuss about sharing a room, you don’t even offer to pay your share, you just drag yourself behind Dean and Sam to the room, one of your Target bags looped around your wrist. They have you sit on one of the beds while they demon-proof the room and when they’re done you change in the bathroom and brush your teeth, pull your hair back into a loose ponytail and try to ignore the way your hands are shaking.

You and Dean share one of the beds without any of you needing to discuss it first and Sam seems to get whatever is going on between the two of you, he doesn’t even say anything about it before he turns out the light. You’re wearing a tank top and a pair of boy shorts but even that feels like too much in the soupy Texas heat, the ancient air conditioner sputtering out bursts of barely cool air. 

You lie there next to Dean and stare out at the dark room, listening to Sam’s breathing deepen and even out as he falls asleep. You and Dean aren’t cuddling, not exactly, he’s lying on his side behind you with one hand resting lightly on your hip. You lie there for a long time until you’re as sure as you can be that he’s asleep, and start to pull yourself towards the edge of the bed. You move slowly, letting his hand drape over your hip bone until it slips off you and you freeze but it doesn’t seem to wake Dean up so you swing off the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom, shut the door quietly behind you and slide down the wall.

You let your head rest against your knees as you try to breathe through the tightness in your chest. You still can’t really imagine it, coming face to face with the demon again. You wonder if it’s even in Leader’s body anymore or if it will come to you in the form of someone else, a stranger, a child, an angel of death. You don’t want to do it, you don’t want to have to face this, but here you are, on the bathroom floor of a motel room in Texas, your left arm wrapped in plastic to protect your fresh tattoo, and you’ve felt alone ever since that night but it’s never had the weight that it does now, knowing that everything rests on your shoulders, that you’re apparently the only one who can do it, kill the demon. 

It’s ironic, you think, that you have to save yourself when you wished you hadn’t been saved in the first place, when you spent those first few days limping around in shock, wishing you could be wherever you mother’s gone instead of here, trapped inside your broken body.

You never wanted this. You never wanted to have to do this.

It would’ve been better for everyone if you hadn’t, if you’d bled out on that table in Sam and Dean’s motel room the night they saved you. They would’ve known what to do, how to properly destroy your body so the demon couldn’t have used you for anything, and the thought sends you crawling across the floor to heave your dinner into the toilet. You rinse your mouth out from the sink when you’re finished, spit and flush, and curl up on the bathroom floor, the tile cool against your flushed skin.

After awhile someone knocks on the door and you don’t answer but you know you left it unlocked, and after a moment Dean comes in and crouches down in front of you. You look up at him and he doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t have to, there’s nothing he can tell you that will make you feel better and he seems to know it, because he just reaches out and you let him scoop you up and carry you back to bed.

He lays you out on your left side and wraps around you from behind, pulling you back against his chest. He’s only wearing a pair of boxers and it’s too warm for blankets, when he splays his hand over your stomach it feel searing hot against your skin. You curl your hands around his arms and try to breathe slow, let yourself fall into the comfort of his arms but you can’t feel it right now.

“I’m scared,” you whisper into the pillow.

His arms tighten around you. “I know.”

“What if I can’t do it?”

“You can.” He kisses the side of your neck, drags his fingers across your stomach. “Get some sleep, you’ll need it.”

“I’m too wired,” you sigh.

His hand slides a little lower. “Oh yeah?”

“We shouldn’t,” you protest softly, even as you spread your legs a little for him.

“Would it help?” he asks in a low voice.

“Sam’s” -

“Sleepin’.”

You think you should feel guilty, or at least awkward, but you don’t, because for all you know you’re all going to die tomorrow and it’s hard to feel bad about getting to have the one thing that makes you feel good one more time. 

Dean slides his fingers down under the waistband of your underwear. “You can be quiet, right?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, reaching down to find his free hand so you can weave your fingers through his fingers. “I think so.”

He huffs out a laugh as his fingers carefully push inside you and you have to swallow a moan. “I guess we’ll find out.”

*

You’re back on the road by eight the next morning, you still have a twelve hour drive ahead of you before you get to Las Vegas. The three of you buy big cups of McDonalds coffee and drink them in the car with Dean behind the wheel again, the air conditioning on blast as the sun shines brightly through the windshield.

Dean blasts ancient rock bands you’ve barely heard of but it sort of works, it keeps you awake at least, amped up, adrenaline flowing through your veins as you leave Texas behind and cruise into New Mexico, blue sky and reddish dirt and mountains flashing past your windows.

The three of you have lunch in Albuquerque, tacos from a food truck eaten right there on the side of the road. You’re almost too nervous to eat but the tacos are incredible and you end up eating three in a row, licking sauce right off your fingers. When you’re all finished Sam takes Dean’s place behind the wheel and you take off again, the sun behind the car as you continue west. 

By the time you make it into Nevada it’s starting to get dusky outside, you watching neon colored billboards for casinos and strip clubs flick past as Sam follows the signs to Las Vegas and from there, the Vegas strip. Your mouth drops open as you take it in, all the glittering lights and the fake Eiffel Tower and the Ferris wheel in the distance.

“So um, what’s the plan here exactly?” you ask softly as Sam slams on his brakes to avoid running a red light.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says from the backseat. “We’re just here to have some fun, check out the city, celebrate that college diploma!”

You turn around in your seat to give him an incredulous look. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”

Sam shoves a hand through his hair, nervously checks his mirrors. “Well, you know how we said that we knew the demon will be here but isn’t here yet?”

It hits you slowly, and you have to lean forward and brace yourself against the dashboard for a second, head bowed. “You want me to play bait.”

“It’s advertisement,” Dean says, as if that’s different. “As far as we’re supposed to know, you got away, you’re safe, it’s over. But of course the demon’s scouring the country for you, it’s got spies everywhere.”

“And if one of them happens to see you out partying with a Winchester…” Sam adds.

You shiver against a rush of fear. “You guys are sure this is a good idea?”

Dean leans forward and rests one hand on your shoulder “You’re going to need to trust us.”

“It’s not like I really have a choice,” you say back.

When Sam gets to the hotel he doesn’t get out of the car. You stand on the sidewalk confused, watching Dean get your Target bags and a duffle out of the trunk before Sam honks the horn and pulls back onto the street.

“Where’s he going?” you ask Dean, pushing your sunglasses up into your hair.

He slings one arm around you and leads you towards the hotel, all gleaming shiny glass and chrome. “Meeting up with backup.”

“Backup?”

His mouth twists sideways. “We’re not crazy enough to do this without some witches of our own.”

Your eyes go wide. “You guys brought witches?”

“We do what we can. If everything goes right you’ll never see ‘em.”

“Great,” you mutter, and both of you give the doormen big fake smiles as they welcome you inside the hotel.

Dean strides through the lobby to the front desk with you trailing behind him and checks you both in under Mr. and Mrs. Parker-Barrow.

“Bonnie and Clyde? Really?” you whisper through clenched teeth, surveying all the people walking through the lobby.

Dean grins and slides a credit card across the desk. “So you know some things that pre-date nineteen ninety.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you sir?” the clerk asks Dean, looking between the two of you.

Dean just smiles and casually slides a twenty across the desk, like he’s worried the clerk might get the idea to double check the room name against the credit card. “Know anywhere I can get a really good burger? I’m talking full out, all the works. Locals always know the best places, right?”

The kid behind the desk smiles and nods enthusiastically as he pockets the cash, and pushes a sheath of fliers into Dean’s hands. “Everything is in here, sir. We sincerely hope you enjoy your stay, don’t hesitate to ask for anything that we can do to make your experience with us as enjoyable as possible.”

Dean thanks him and tries to steer you toward the elevators but you shake your head and point across the lobby to a little boutique. “We’re in Vegas, I don’t think jeans and a tee shirt from Target are gonna cut it here.”

Dean sits in a loveseat in the lobby that faces the glass walls of the boutique so he can watch you shop, hands in his pockets, legs kicked up on an ottoman like he’s really on vacation and you wonder how much time you have left, how many more hours you get before you have to face the demon.

You think about the fresh tattoo on your arm and decide to go with something that has long sleeves but you’re also in Vegas, so you pick out a long sleeved black dress that’s very short and dips low in the back. You find a pair of sky high gold open toed stilettos in your size, take it and the dress to the counter and pay with your credit card.

Dean meets you at the entrance of the lobby and takes your shopping bag for you, back to pretending to be the dutiful boyfriend for the sake of whoever may be watching you, and that makes you trip right into him, the realization that any one of these people walking past you could be a spy, off to report your activity to the demon.

“Hey, easy, you’re alright.” Dean slings his arm over your shoulders. “Just pretend you’re on vacation.”

“Last time I was here I was way drunker and way less tatted up,” you mutter.

Dean glances down at your tattooed arm. “What were you here for?”

“Spring break,” you mumble, picturing that club with Natalie, dancing together in matching little dresses, moving like you were one girl in two bodies.

“Oh yeah?” You reach the elevator bay and Dean smacks the button with his free hand, smiling widely at a family with three sunburnt children who walk by.

“Mhmm.”

“Who’d you go with?”

“My friend. The one who…”

“The one that texted you?”

You inhale shakily. “Yeah.”

Dean squeezes your shoulder. “After this is all over you can call her.”

You let out a choked laugh. “And tell her what?”

He glances sideways at you. “I’m sure she wants to know you’re okay.”

You sigh, you can’t deal with thinking about after right now, it’s too overwhelming, you can only handle thinking about what’s directly in front of you or you’ll have a meltdown. The elevator arrives and you step in it with Dean, he swipes your room card over the electronic reader and selects the twelfth floor. 

“Where’s Sam staying?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. “Here with us?”

“I believe the le Fay’s will be checking in later tonight,” Dean says vaguely.

“So what’s the plan, we aren’t really going out for burgers, are we?”

“What’s wrong with burgers?”

You frown at your blurry reflection in the elevator doors. “I just don’t really get how that fits into the plan.”

“That is the plan sweetheart. Hit the town, flash that pretty face around.”

“Until the demon shows up?”

“Exactly,” he says, and you’re so freaked out by his answer that you don’t say anything back.

The doors slide open and you follow Dean out of the elevator and trail down the hallway until he stops in front of a door and swipes his card, pushes the door open and leads you inside. It’s a standard hotel room but after shitty motels off the highway and an underground bunker it feels unbelievably luxurious - a queen size bed with a thick fluffy comforter, a velvet divan against the windows, a flatscreen tv hung above a black dresser.

Dean crosses the room and drops your bags on the floor next to the bed. “You wanna get changed for dinner?”

“Yeah, okay.” You grab the shopping bag with your new outfit and the Target bag with your toiletries in it and escape to the bathroom.

It’s ridiculously nice, marble countertops and shining white tile and a huge shower. You set all your stuff on the sink counter and take off your clothes, twist your hair into a bun and step into the shower. The water heats up right away and it feels amazing, you break open the hotel brand shower gel and take your time getting clean, partly because it feels so good to stand under the water but mostly because you’re not exactly in a rush to get out there and face the demon, you know at this point it’s inevitable but you still take your time, only stepping out of the shower when the water starts getting cold.

You wrap a fluffy towel around yourself and dry off, hang it on a rack and yank on a clean thong. You shake your hair out of its bun and run a little shine cream through it, mess it up with your fingers until it looks beach wavy, not too perfect, no point when it’ll probably end up covered in blood by the end of the night.

The thought makes you so depressed that you have to rest your elbows on the sink counter and bury your face in your hands. The plastic wrap over your thumb is sticky against your cheek and you sigh and straighten up, slowly peel the wrap off and throw it away.

Your tattoo looks thick and dark against your skin, the edges slightly red but as far as you can tell it looks like it’s healing right, in a few days it’ll crack and scab over, itch like hell, but right now it’s a stark and menacing swirl of runes that run from the inside of your elbow all the way down to your thumb and pointer finger.

You dig through the Target bag and take out all your makeup, line it up against the mirror before hopping up onto the counter and crossing your legs, the marble cold under your bare ass. You run on tinted moisturizer, dab on concealer, sweep bronzer under your cheekbones, comb your eyebrows with brow gel, and apply a few layers of mascara. If you had eyeliner or lipstick you’d put that on too but you don’t so you have to settle for a basic face. Not that it matters, it’s not like you have someone to look beautiful for, you’re either going to die tonight or you’re going to kill the demon and probably get thrown on the first bus out of town in the morning.

You aren’t stupid, you know that just because you and Dean have hooked up a few times doesnt mean you’re in a relationship, it doesn’t mean he loves you or cares about you beyond helping you do this one thing. 

It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe if you’d met him in a different way, maybe if you weren’t the legacy of a witch or he wasn’t a hunter, but you’re both the people your parents made, people who don’t get normal, who don’t get the luxury of easy relationships. You’re two screwed up people pulled together by fate, two people who might not wake up tomorrow.

You take the dress out of the shopping bag and rip off the tag, pull it over your head and tug it down over your hips. It’s tight and scooped low enough in the front that you don’t see the point in wearing a bra, you fuss with your cleavage a little and turn around to look at your exposed back in the mirror and the way the dress clings to your ass. You sit on the closed toilet lid and strap on your new heels, stand up and play with your hair in the mirror for a minute until you really can’t think of anything else you need to do.

When you step out of the bathroom Dean’s changed into a pair of nicer jeans and a tight black vee neck that makes him look unfairly hot. He gives you a big grin and steps towards you, eyes gliding over your body. “Damn girl.”

“You said the idea is to look like we’re on vacation, right?”

He gives you a satisfied smirk and steps close to you. “You definitely look like you’d be a lot of fun.”

“I used to be,” you answer honestly, surprising both of you. “I was a lot of fun.”

Dean reaches down and weaves his fingers through yours. “You still are.”

You laugh dryly. “Oh yeah, I’m sure this week has been a ball for you.”

“Driving around with a pretty girl, waking up in bed next to you? Not gonna complain about that.”

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Hey.” He cups your jaw with his free hand. “You’ve got this, okay? And I’m gonna be right there with you the whole time.”

You nuzzle your cheek against his palm. “But no pressure, right?”

“Hey.” Dean runs his thumb along your cheekbone. “I know I never met your mom but I know she’d be proud of you.”

You swallow back tears. “Thanks.”

“I need you to be brave,” he says softly. “Can you do that for me?”

You blink rapidly at him so you don’t cry. “Yeah. I’ll try.”

He kisses your forehead and pulls you towards the door. “C’mon, fighting’s always easier on a full stomach.”

You tighten your grip on his hand and let Dean lead you out of the hotel room and into whatever might be waiting for you on the other side of the door.


	15. gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve made it to the end! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy <3

“Oh my gahhhhh,” Dean moans around a mouthful of his burger. “This is amazing.”

You wrinkle your nose and try not to gag. “I have no idea how you’re able to eat right now.”

Dean swallows and points to your untouched Chicken Marsala. “Gotta fuel up before a fight.”

“If I eat I’ll puke,” you mutter. “Actually I might puke anyway.”

“Don’t puke,” he says helpfully. 

You take a sip of water and press the cold glass to the inside of your wrist. “Seriously, how are you not freaking out? Every person in this restaurant right now could be… you know.”

Dean reaches across the table and squeezes your hand. “This is game time, baby. I’m in the zone.”

“We’re about to get killed and you’re throwing around sports references?” you hiss.

“Hey, we aren’t getting killed,” he says quietly, looking around to make sure no one around them is listening in. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

You don’t argue, because _fine_ means that you survive the night and end up on a bus going who knows where, all alone, and as far as you’re concerned that isn’t fine, but that also isn’t his problem. 

You tap your fingernails against the table, the polish is finally starting to chip. “So what do we do now, anyway?”

Dean shrugs. “We’re in Vegas, what do you want to do?”

“Uh… not die?”

You end up at a club that’s playing music so loud you can’t hear each other unless you scream so you dance instead, Dean’s hands on your ass as you grind against him. You hold onto him with both hands and press your cheek against his chest so you can feel the beat of his heart in your body just like you can feel the pound of the bass in the music vibrating through the club.

You close your eyes, arms wrapped tightly around him, and think if you’re going to die at least you won’t be alone, at least it won’t be in a room tied to a chair, but it doesn’t make you really feel better. It’s not fair, you’re not ready to die, you have so much left of your life, but so did all those people in the coven, your mother, and they’re all gone. They died for you.

You look up at Dean, neon lights flashing across his beautiful face as he even smiles at you, like you’re out on a date, two young beautiful people partaking in the excess of the City of Sin, and you can’t make yourself smile back but you focus on his eyes, his nose, his lips, memorizing him, doing the only thing you know how to do to stop yourself from falling into despair - keeping your focus on him.

All around you scantily dressed people are dancing and jumping and screaming to hear each other over the music but you and Dean are an island unto yourselves, he holds you right up against him, moving like you’re making love, arms and legs wrapped around each other. He slides his hands up to your back, heat sinking through the thin fabric of your dress, and you only have a split-second to catch the flash of alarm in his eyes before the back of your head explodes and everything goes dark.

*

You wake up tied to a chair.

For a moment you think you’re back there, in the basement of the coven, and a scream bubbles up in the back of your throat, but then someone groans and when you whip your head to the side Dean’s in a chair right next to you, blinking hazy eyes at you. You look around, you’re in a hotel room, there’s a curtained window, a flat screen TV on the wall, everything decorated in cream and gold and emerald green. 

“Finally, you’re awake. Have a nice nap?” There’s a maid standing in the doorway of the bathroom dressed in a standard uniform, a little gold name tag pinned to the breast of her black shirt.

Dean lets out a heavy sigh, like he’s bored. “I’ve had better.”

The maid smirks and steps a little closer to you. She’s pretty, not much older than you probably, dark hair and olive skin. There’s something in her expression that seems familiar, something that makes your stomach twist. You pull back instinctively but there’s nowhere to go, your arms are tied to the back of your chair by the wrists.

“Hello beautiful,” she says. “You’re certainly looking better than the last time I saw you.”

Fear rises up in you so fast you almost throw up on her. “No,” you whisper.

The demon flashes black eyes at you and smiles. “Oh yes.”

“What, aren’t you gonna tell me how pretty I look too?” Dean asks, sounding unbelievably cheerful. “I’m feeling a little left out here.”

The demon flicks her eyes at him and smirks. “A baby witch and a Winchester. My oh my, it’s my lucky day.”

“I’m not a witch,” you spit out.

The demon raises an eye at you. “Those tattoos on your arm say otherwise. They’re so enchanted they’re practically singing.”

That scares you, because your tattoos, the magical ink Dax made, are all covered by the sleeve of your dress. You wiggle your fingers, relieved that you can still move them all, but then the demon puts a hand on your cheek and your head snaps back so hard you almost tip the chair over.

“Relax sweetie.” A finger runs down your cheek. “I must confess, I like to play with my food before I eat it.”

“Ugh, please don’t make me sit through a monologue,” Dean complains, like you aren’t both about to die, like this is all merely a minor inconvenience. “They’re getting old, honestly.”

The demon’s eyes flash. “You’re dessert, darling. Settle in, it’s going to be awhile. Miss magic over here and I have some catching up to do.”

“Nah,” Dean says casually. “I don’t think so.”

The demon clicks her tongue. “ _Such_ a Winchester. Can’t admit you’ve lost the upper hand even when yours are tied together.”

Dean, incredibly, just smiles, like she’s complimented him. “What can I say, at least I’m consistent.”

The demon turns back to you. “Now, where were we?”

“Caylee,” Dean says in a low voice. 

Your eyes fill with tears. “Dean.”

“Aww, how sweet,” the demon coos. “And here I thought hunters and witches were fundamentally on different sides.”

“We’re on the ‘fuck demons’ side,” Dean snarls. “Enemy of my enemy and all that, I’m sure you understand.”

You start to cry. “Don't do this,” you plead. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Oh honey, of course I don’t.” The demon smiles and you wonder if there’s still a girl inside that body, screaming to be let free. “I _want_ to.”

“Caylee,” Dean says again. “ _Now_.”

_I am so brave._

“Thank you,” you whisper to Dean. “For everything.”

You tap your left thumb against each of your fingers and then there’s a rushing in your ears and something hot is burning through your skin, and you scream as power floods through your veins and the room explodes in a sea of red, red, red.

And then there is nothing.

*

You wake up on fire.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out, like a nightmare, and -

Wait.

This has happened before.

With Herculean effort you manage to open your eyes and Dean is there, his face white, only inches from yours, blurry like you’re seeing him through a veil of tears but definitely there. You blink heavily at him a few times, you feel very weak and you realize that you’re cold, so cold it burns like fire.

“Hang on.” Dean sounds tense. “Don’t move.”

You can’t move anyway so you lie there on the floor, trying to get your eyes to focus but all you see is cream and gold and splashes of red like someone has dumped a bucket of red paint everywhere but -

“Hey, hey, hey, breathe.” Dean’s back, his hands warm as he lifts you up and wraps a hotel towel tightly around you. “You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay.”

“What h-happened?” you choke out, slumping into his chest.

“You did it.”

You turn your head and out of the corner of your eye you see a shoe that’s connected to a, oh _god_ -

“Don’t look!” Dean shoves your face into his chest and gathers you in his arms. “Sam’ll deal with it.”

“It’s dead?” you moan. “She’s dead?”

“We need to go.” Dean stands up and the sensation makes your head spin.

You keep your eyes shut but it all goes grey anyway and you feel your head fall back as you pass out again.

*

“Caylee.” Dean’s voice is very soft in your ear. “C’mon. Wake up sweetheart.”

It’s like forcing yourself to swim through icy water, breaking through the surface and the shock makes you gasp for breath as your eyes fly open. You’re lying on the floor of the hotel bathroom, the one in your room, your makeup littered across the marble counter and a towel soaked with blood crumpled in the corner.

“Hey, there you are.” Dean’s crouched by your side. “Let’s get you out of this dress, okay?”

You cover your face with your hands and cry.

“Okay.” Dean sighs. “Alright.”

“Is it really dead?” you sob. You’re shivering, you realize, teeth clacking together.

“Hey, look at me.” He peels your hands away from your face and you’re so weak you let him. “You did it. It’s over.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. “Really?”

He twists his mouth to the side and smooths your hair back from your forehead. “Really.”

Your face crumps up, you don’t know why you’re acting this way, you should be happy, you should be ecstatic, but all you feel is empty and so cold it hurts. “I feel really bad,” you cry. 

“Yeah, that’s the magic.” He gets a tissue from the box on the counter and wipes your face for you. “That spell took a lot out of you.”

You try to sit up but you’re too weak to lift your head. “So what, I have a magical hangover?”

He chuckles. “Something like that.”

“This sucks,” you tell him, and start crying again.

“Yeah, I know.” 

“So…” you blink back tears. “What do we do now?”

“Gonna put you in a bath, you’re fucking freezing.”

“I can’t move,” you whisper.

Dean leans over the lip of the tub and starts the water. “You’re weak right now, that spell was hard core. You pretty much set off a magical bomb, that takes a crazy amount of energy. We’ll order room service and sleep here tonight, you should be feeling better in the morning.”

“Okay,” you sigh, because you can’t really think of anything that sounds better than that right now.

You don’t realize that your dress is drenched in blood until Dean’s pulling the fabric up over your head and you see the rivulets of stained red trailing down your legs and you hyperventilate as you kick off your underwear, the scent of iron and copper strong in your nose, Dean scoops you up and puts you down in the water, you pull your knees into your chest and drop your head down, flinching when he rests his hand on your back. The water is just warm enough for it to hurt but it’s a good kind of hurt, you wiggle your toes and try to get your muscles to relax. 

“Better?” he asks.

You turn your head to the side, tears sliding out of the corners of your eyes as you blink at him, you’re so tired you could sink down into the water and go to sleep. “Did I kill her? The maid?”

He clenches his jaw and doesn’t look at you. “She was dead as soon as the demon chose her.”

You nod, close your eyes and cry.

“It’s not your fault,” he says in a gravelly voice. “Sometimes… she was collateral damage. It happens.”

You choke down a sob. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know that.” He cups the back of your neck, fingertips so tender against your damp skin that it only makes you cry harder. “It’s still not your fault.”

You press the palms of your hands against your temples. “Don’t you get it? _All_ of this is my fault! She’s dead because of me!”

“And how many people do you think would die if you hadn’t stopped the demon?”

“How do you do this?” you whisper. “How do you live like this?”

“You saved people,” he insists. “You can’t see it right now, but what you did, killing it, that matters.”

“Your psychic friends tell you that?”

He sighs and kisses the top of your head. “I’m going to order room service.”

He leaves you to sit in the bath alone, watching the water slowly tinge pink as another woman’s blood washes off your skin. You feel hollow, like you could cry for the rest of your life and it wouldn’t even help, like there’s nothing left inside of you. You did what they asked you to do, you killed the demon who murdered your mother and her coven and now there’s nothing left for you. You’re no one, an orphan, a scarred tattooed girl whose heart is so weighed down by the blood you know is on your hands that it feels like your chest will break wide open.

Dean comes back and lifts you out of water, and you’re so out of it you barely realize he’s stripped down to boxer briefs. He sets you down on the counter on top of a clean towel and Dean dries you off, wraps you up in a plush waffle knit hotel robe and cups your face in his hands.

“You with me?” he asks.

You stare at the tattoo on his chest, the stubble over his jaw, those green eyes that bore all the way down to your soul. You’re still crying silently, tears slowly rolling down your face and over his hands and you don’t even know who they’re for, if you’re crying for yourself or everyone who died for you. Dean runs his thumbs under your eyes and kisses your forehead, your temple, licks at your face like he can drink up your sadness and make it go away for you.

You wrap your arms around his neck, close your eyes as he drops butterfly kisses over your eyelids. “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

Dean pulls back, reaches up and unwinds your hands from his neck so he can hold them against his chest. “No.”

Your bottom lip trembles. “I feel like a bad person.”

“You did the best you could with a really shitty hand. There ain’t anything bad about that, baby.”

“A lot of people died because of me.”

“A lot of people died because a demon put a target on your back. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I miss my mom,” you confess.

He gives you a smile that looks like it hurts. “She’d be proud of you. You fought like hell.”

Someone knocks on the door and you both flinch. “Room service!”

“Come on.” Dean holds his arms out to you. “Food makes everything better.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and he slips his hands under your thighs to carry you out of the bathroom. He swings you gently onto the bed and opens the door, a silver knife clutched behind his back as he takes the tray from the bellboy and shuts the door, sets the knife down and carries the food over to the bed. He’s ordered you both a feast: baked Mac-n-cheese, French fries, chicken strips, sliced strawberries, yogurt parfaits topped with chocolate chips.

Your stomach growls and Dean gives you a knowing smile. He sprawls out on the bed next to you and turns the tv on, flips through channels until he finds a cheesy romcom playing on Bravo, and squirts ketchup on the side of a plate for the fries. It turns out you’re ravenous, you eat three chicken tenders, half the Mac-n-cheese and an entire parfait with Dean devours the full serving of fries, the other half of the Mac-n-cheese, and the rest of the chicken tenders.

“Nothing like nearly dying to work up an appetite,” he declares, popping a few strawberries into his mouth and following it up with a scoop of his parfait.

You pick out the stray chocolate chips at the bottom of your parfait. “I’ve never been this hungry in my entire life. Magic is a bitch.”

“You’ve basically been starving yourself for a week,” he mutters. “You needed it.”

You blink in surprise, you hadn’t really thought of it that way but he’s sort of right. “I guess grief is it’s own kind of diet.”

He licks granola off his spoon. “Gotta start living again at some point.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, and don’t say more about that, because you don’t want to think about how you’re going to have to live without him.

*

You wake up in the morning naked under the crisp hotel sheets, sunlight streaming in through the gaps in the curtains. Next to you Dean’s sprawled out on his back and you take what might be your last opportunity to study his face, the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw, the faint dusting of freckles over his nose. You don’t know how you’re supposed to walk away from this, how are you going to turn your back on him forever, walk away from the one golden thing that came out of the ashes of your loss?

He cracks one eye open and give you a sleepy grin. “Like what you see?”

If you say something you’re sure you’ll start crying or worse, beg him not to leave you, let you hide from the world in this hotel room for the rest of time, so you nod and slide close enough to press yourself up against his side and rest your chin on his chest. Dean wraps his arms around you to pull you fully on top of him and you shudder at the heat of his bare chest against your own. You let your legs splay out to the sides and settle in his lap, head on his chest as he traces over your ribs, drags his fingertips up your spine, smooths your hair away from your face as he sits up a little to look at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You don’t want to answer so you tilt your face up to kiss instead and he indulges you, gently brushing his lips against yours as he wraps one hand over the back of your neck. You sink into the kiss, settling your weight over him, and you rock your hips, dizzy from just this. He pulls away and raises one eyebrow at you as he drops his hands to cup your ass.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” he asks in a low voice.

“I don’t want to regret anything,” you tell him. “I don’t want to look back and wish…”

He’s already kissing you again, like he understands, and you drag your hands over his pecs, his abs, down to the waistband of his boxer briefs. He lifts you up so he can take them off and rolls you over onto your back, and then leans over the bed to grab his duffle, roots around until he finds a condom and tosses it onto the bed. He comes back to you and settles into the cradle of your hips, eyes soft and full of emotion you can’t deal with right now, so you pull him down to kiss and wrap your legs around his waist, let him grind against you until you’re writhing underneath him and begging him to put on the condom while he chuckles into your skin and sucks a bruise over your heart.

*

After it’s over you take a shower together and you end up with your back against the cold tiles, your legs slung over Dean’s shoulders while he goes down on you, your fingers in his hair and his tongue dancing over your wet skin until your face is wet with tears and you’re sobbing his name. He helps you down and you cling to him, skin hot like you have a fever. He kisses you on the mouth, hard and then softer, until you melt into him. He combs the conditioner out of your hair with his fingers and helps you out of the shower, handing you a dry towel before wrapping one around his waist.

He hoists you up onto the counter and you let your towel fall, inhaling sharply when he spreads his hands flat over your stomach. “I think the stitches are ready to come out,” he says. “You want me to do it?”

You nod, because it’s only right for him to finish what he started and you want it, one more moment of Dean’s care and attention and his hands on your body. He skims his hands down your sides, fingers catching on the edge of your bandage.

“I’ll get my first aid kit.” Dean leaves the bathroom and you wait for him on the counter, naked from the waist down. It’s weird, you’ve gotten used to your stitches, used to the little ritual of getting them cleaned, being the recipient of Dean Winchester’s careful attention.

He comes back and sets the first aid kit on the counter, washes his hands and peels your bandage off. He has you lean back against the mirror, stretches your skin taut with his left hand and starts to take the stitches out. He’s right, it doesn’t hurt, Dean works meticulously as always and like always you don’t look down where he’s touching you, you look at the top of his head and his shoulders and try not to cry at the realization that you’ll probably never feel this close to another person again.

When he’s finished he has you hop down and spins you around to show you the results in the mirror. A long jagged scar curves down your side from your ribs to your hip and you can’t help it, your eyes fill with tears as you take in your reflection.

Dean cups your shoulders. “It’s not that bad.”

You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision. “Do… you think people will think I’m ugly?”

“Hey.” Dean spins you by the wrist to face him and points to his own body, littered with scars from god only knows what. “You think I’m ugly?”

You swallow back tears and shake your head. “I think you’re beautiful.”

He stares at you and then he’s pinning you against the sink to kiss you breathless. “Trust me,” he says thickly. “You’ve still got it.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask, like you’re daring him.

Dean laughs, like he can’t wait to prove it to you, scoops you into his arm and carries you back to bed.

*

You and Dean check out of your room at noon and make a detour on your way out to stop at one of the boutiques in the lobby so you can buy yourself a suitcase. You rip the tags off as soon as you walk out and unzip it, throw your Target bag into it and let Dean roll the suitcase across the street to meet Sam at a diner.

He gives you a bear hug when you come in and you have to swallow back another round of tears. Sam has been so kind to you, you don’t know how you could ever begin to thank him and it hits you when the three of you slide into a booth that this could be your last time ever eating a meal with them.

They’re both in good moods, they order stacks of Belgian waffles that come loaded with strawberries and whipped cream with a side of bacon and a pot of coffee. You take a mug that Sam pours you and lean back in your booth, kick at Dean’s feet under the table. Their mood is contagious and for the first time you let yourself feel relief, slowly letting yourself relax into the realization that you’re safe, that no one is after you, you don’t have to be afraid of demons or knives or chairs and rope anymore.

You convince them to let you pay when you get the bill, you put it on your credit card and sign without checking the total. Across from you Dean drains his mug and gives you a curious look. “Okay, I gotta ask. How come a college grad with no family and no job has plastic with this high of a credit limit?”

“My grandparents,” you explain. “I never really met them, they didn’t approve of my mom’s ‘lifestyle’. But they wanted me to be taken care of so they set up a trust fund for me. My mom’s accountant takes care of everything.”

Dean nods and scratches the back of his neck. “Okay. That’s good, that’ll make it easier for you.”

Your stomach drops at what he’s alluding to and you curl your fingers around the strap of your bag as you try not to regurgitate your waffles all over the table.

“Hey,” Sam says gently. “Is there anyone you want to call, now that it’s safe? Your aunt?”

“I haven’t talked to her in years,” you mumble. “I don’t even know what I would say.”

“You should call your friend,” Dean says. “The one that sent you all those texts.”

You press your lips together at the resurgence of the Natalie-sized ache in your chest.

“Go on,” Dean says gently. “She’d want to know you’re okay.”

“Meet you by the car?” you suggest.

Sam gives you an encouraging smile. “Okay.”

You go outside and sit down on a bench. You take your phone out and hold it in your hands for a long time before you get the courage to pull up Natalie’s number and dial. It rings a few times and then there’s a shaky inhale on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” She sounds suspicious, and painfully hopeful.

“Hey Nat, it’s me,” you say, and burst into tears.

*

At the bus station Sam hugs you for a long time while Dean stores away your new suitcase for you and buys you a whole bag of snacks for the bus ride to LA. Sam only lets you go when it’s obviously time for you to say goodbye, he kisses the top of your head and wanders off towards the Impala, leaving you alone with Dean. 

You can’t even look at him, it hurts too much, you stare down at your feet and when he wraps his arms around you it’s all you can do not to collapse into him and sob.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he murmurs. “I know you’re scared but Natalie’s your friend, right? She’ll take care of you.”

You nod into his chest. “She’s got a futon with my name on it.”

He rubs your back. “See? You got a place to crash, you have money, you’ll be okay.”

“It won’t be as good as sleeping with you,” you confess.

He cups one hand around your jaw and gently makes your head tip back. “This is for the best, you know that right? You’ll be happy in California. It’s warm, you’ll be with your friend. You can, you know. Take some time and just live.”

Your eyes blur with tears. “I don’t think I remember how to do that.”

“Yeah you do,” he chides softly.

“Dean…” 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he declares, and wipes your tears away with the edge of his hand. “Call me when you get there, okay? Natalie’s picking you up at the station?”

“I don’t have your number,” you sniff.

Dean winks. “Sure you do. Put it in your phone the first night it charged, just in case.”

You shake your head at him. “Who are you even?”

“Who, me?” Dean shrugs. “I’m no one.”

“That’s not true,” you shoot back.

He sighs and slips his fingers through the belt loops of your shorts. “Yeah, kid. It is.”

You realize what he means - he’s no one to _you_ , just a guy you used to know, a blip on the radar of your life.

“Bullshit. You saved me,” you declare, and because you might never get to do it again you throw your arms around his neck and kiss the hell out of him.

He laughs against your mouth. “Now that’s a hell of a goodbye kiss.”

“Don’t,” you plead. “Don’t say it.”

He sighs. “What do you want me to say, beautiful?”

You run your hands down his chest. “I want you to say that you’ll call me if you’re ever in LA.”

“Okay,” he replies. “I can do that.”

“Really?”

“Look, just, call me when you get there, okay? I think once you’re there and get settled in you’ll…”

“I’ll what, forgot about you? Never gonna happen, Dean. I’ve got the scars to remember it, not to mention this.” You wave your tattooed arm at him. “God, I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to explain _that_.”

“You’ll be in LA, pretty sure people have crazy ink out there. No one’ll even notice. Now go on, you’re gonna miss the bus.”

“You caught onto me stalling, huh?”

“Hey, I got a damn good kiss out of it, I’m not complaining.”

You force yourself to step back, straighten out your shoulders and get ready to walk away from him. “I’m really going to miss you.”

He gives you a ghost of a smile. “Right back atcha.”

“I’ll call when I get there?”

Dean nods. “Good girl.”

“I don’t think I can say goodbye,” you admit. “I’ve had to say that to a lot of things lately. I don’t know if I can do that with you.”

“Okay, then we won’t.” He swoops down and kisses your cheek. “Be safe, I’ll talk to you in a few hours. Okay?”

You close your eyes against the sting of tears. “Okay.”

He stands on the sidewalk while you board and when you get a window seat you can still spot him, his arms crossed over his chest. You press your palm to the windowpane when the bus pulls away, watching until he vanishes from view. You have to clap your hands over your mouth to cover the sound of the sob that tears out of you, and after taking a few tight inhales through your nose you plug your headphones into your phone and slip them on. You open your music app and scroll through, nothing really seems appealing to you and you think about flying down interstate highways listening to classic rock, wind in your hair, neon billboards, glowing Golden Arches promising coffee and French fries.

You create a new playlist and start adding songs, songs about lost lovers, songs about long roads and lonely nights. Songs about beautiful girls and girls who are broken, songs about boys with scars and eyes full of trouble, boys who save girls and boys who couldn’t. When you’re done you title the playlist _Songs For No One_ and open up your contacts to find his number.

You snort when you see the entry - _no one_. You tap it to open a new text thread, and send Dean the playlist. You stare out the window and a few minutes later your phone dings with a text from him: _So you do know some songs that came out pre-Y2K._

 _Never said I didn’t._ you text back.

You stare at the little dots on the screen anxiously, and finally another text comes through: _I have some song recommendations, obviously. If you’re interested._

You smile to yourself as you type back. _I’m stuck on a bus, entertain me._

_Oh sweetheart, this isn’t entertainment. You need to be educated._

Song suggestions start rolling in, some you know, some you have to look up, and you’re not on Wifi right now and you’ll probably eat up all your data but right now you don’t care, you’d do a lot more than pay an extra charge on your phone bill if it means you can keep texting with Dean.

You press your hand down against your side, over your scar, listening to one of the songs Dean suggests. Maybe you’ll get a tattoo over the scar one day, turn it into something beautiful. You could always get in touch with Dax, he gave you his card, maybe he could design something for you.

Like a sunflower, you think idly. That might look nice.

You lean your head against the window as the bus drives west, Dean Winchester’s favorite music playing in your ears, and watch the glowing ball of the sun on the edge of the horizon as it starts to set, turning everything in its path to gold.


End file.
